Last To Know
by DrPepperDiva
Summary: Derek/Stiles. MPREG. Kink meme fill in which every werewolf and shapeshifter in Beacon Hills is aware that Stiles is pregnant before he is. And the first baby!werewolf being born into a pack is apparently a big freakin' deal, and excuse enough for everyone to lose their damn minds. Stiles figuring out why everyone is being so weird around him is just the beginning.
1. Chapter 1

Hello,

Yeah, I don't even know...a friend of mine dared me to fill this prompt on the TW kink meme, and what was supposed to be four drabbles of crack turned into 30,000 words of fairly serious mpreg. Just...I don't even know.

Obligatory notes: This is taking place in that lovely trope of a 'world where male pregnancies are possible, but pretty rare' so there's no magic mumbojumbo going on. And I figured, hey, if I'm gonna make it so guys can get knocked up, why not just go all out on the AU thing? So, this is a future!fic taking place in a much happier version of the future, where Gerard was dealt with without Mama Argent getting bitten and dying, Lydia is a werewolf, Jackson stayed a werelizard, but got his mind back, and Derek and Stiles resolved their epic UST and have been happily cohabitating for a few years. Everyone is one, big, happy pack, all of them in their early twenties and attending various colleges and online schools. Okay? Okay. All right? All right. Okay. Please enjoy :)

* * *

It's Lydia that first alerts him that something's up.

Generally speaking, he and Lydia are the only ones that make an appearance before noon on days after the full moon. Lydia because she's a freakish morning person (he thinks probably his desperate, epic teenage love would have died a much earlier and more dignified death had he known she harbored such a dark and terrible secret), and him because…well, screw it, he _likes_ making breakfast for everyone.

And Jackson can make as many snide comments as he wants, 'cause Stiles totally saw the lost, forlorn look on his face that week Stiles was down with the flu and they had to make do with cereal.

Stiles' pancakes…they are the stuff of legend.

So, it's kind of become a tradition for him and Lydia to spend their mornings together when the whole pack is out at Derek's house for their 'time of the month'. They talk quietly as Stiles bustles around the kitchen, throwing together omelets, pancakes, and a full pig's worth of bacon and sausage. They linger over coffee, discussing their classes and their jobs, snarking about the latest reality TV show, and just in general enjoying each other's company.

He's looking forward to it today more than usual, actually. Derek is two days into a five-day trip upstate to handle some business with his family's lawyers and make some kind of obligatory visit to the Alpha of a pack his parents had been friendly with, and Stiles is missing him more than he'd actually thought possible. It's the first time they've spent more than a night apart in more than three years, now. He's got at least three more hours before he can reasonably expect Derek to be done with the lawyers, or in any mood for a phone call, and he's itching for distraction. He hasn't been sleeping well the past few days, despite the fact that he's felt more tired than usual. He chalks it up to Derek's absence, though (amazing how empty a king-size bed can feel when you're used to sharing it with someone), and the extra stress of helping Scott ride herd on the rest of the pack during the full moon.

Lydia is lounging on a barstool at the island Stiles insisted be installed last year (he was entirely supportive of Derek rebuilding and refurbishing his family home to look as much like he remembered it as possible…but he'd put his foot down about the kitchen. He's sure Mr. and Mrs. Hale were lovely, amazing people, but neither of them had had any concept of how to maximize the workspace in a kitchen. Counter space, people!), still in sweatpants and one of Jackson's old Lacrosse jerseys, her hair shoved into a messy ponytail. He tilts his head as he walks into the kitchen, smiling softly. His crush might have smoothed over into a deep and lasting friendship—and honestly, he's not an idiot…Derek is _it_ for him—but he still thinks she's the most beautiful girl he's ever seen.

She looks up as he enters, her lips curving into an answering smile. "Hey…what are the chances I can get you to make some more of that awesome—" She trails off as he passes her on his way to the refrigerator. She leans forward and sniffs at him delicately, sliding off her seat to come closer.

He ignores her, well used to such behavior by now. Someone is always sniffing him, or sidling up against him, and, on one memorable occasion, _licking_ him (he'd been gone for two weeks, visiting relatives with his father, and the pack had been…adamant…about getting their scent back on him when he'd returned. He hadn't been able to look Scott in the eye for three days afterward). He pokes his head in the 'fridge, gathering eggs, milk, butter, bacon, and sausage. There's one of those re-useable grocery bags sitting on the bottom shelf, full-to-bursting with quarts of fresh blueberries. Isaac had stopped at a roadside farmer's market on the way back to Derek's from his school yesterday, and presented Stiles with the fruit and a quiet request for muffins for breakfast. It's one of Stiles' mother's recipes, and Isaac hardly ever makes special requests. Stiles is happy to oblige.

He hears Lydia take a final, deep breath, practically right next to his _ear_, and then a quiet gasp. When he turns back around, a veritable tower of foodstuffs teetering precariously in his arms, Lydia is just staring at him, a sort of stunned expression on her face. Her hands are up at her mouth, and he's not sure, but her eyes look a little glassy. He frowns at her in confusion, glancing down to check that his fly isn't open or anything, and in the process he manages to nearly drop the eggs.

Lydia darts forward, saving the eggs with those awesome werewolf reflexes…then shocks the hell out of him by immediately crowding in and practically snatching the rest of the ingredients out of his arms. "Here, let me get that!" she says, bright and cheery and helpful and his eyebrows start climbing towards his hairline.

Lydia…Lydia is many things. Many wonderful, wonderful things. But she is _not_ helpful in the kitchen. He loves their early morning chats, loves hanging out with her over coffee, but she has always been perfectly clear in her assertions that the only part she wants in the preparation of a meal is the eating of it. Tasting as Stiles puts something together is also acceptable. Usually, he's lucky if he can get her to hand him _anything_ out of the refrigerator. Here she is, though, spreading his ingredients out over the counter before gripping him firmly by the shoulder and practically frog-marching him over to the stool she just vacated.

"Why don't you sit down, let someone else feed the masses for once?" she says, still in that bright and happy tone, and he goes from shocked to a little wary. "Can I get you anything? Juice?" She doesn't wait for an answer, just waltzes-_waltzes_…that is actual waltzing there!—over to one of the cabinets and grabs the biggest tumbler they have, taking it over to the refrigerator and filling it with orange juice.

And that right there shoots him straight past 'wary' and into 'freaked out'.

"Yeah, I'm actually not that thirsty—" he starts as she sets the juice down in front of him, but his protest stutters to a halt as she glares at him. Honest-to-God glares. And that glare…well, that glare had been moving mountains and parting seas even before the addition of the nearly sub-sonic growl in the back of her throat. "Hey, juice! Juice is great! I love juice!"

Nope, not an idiot.

She actually stands there and watches him as he drinks, her eyes never wavering from him until he's drained every last drop. Then she smiles at him, wide and beatific, and she's practically dancing again as she whisks the empty glass over to the sink. He sits at the island, drumming his fingers nervously on the surface and racking his brain for any way that Lydia—his wonderful, amazing, ball-busting-_bitch_ Lydia—could have been possessed by the spirit of an Italian grandmother.

He tries a few more times to get up and take over breakfast preparations, but every time he so much as moves, Lydia is whirling on him with that same glare. And seriously, he likes his balls right where they are (_Derek_ likes his balls right where they are), so eventually he gives up and sits there helplessly as Lydia goes about making the pack breakfast with far more enthusiasm than skill. He watches with a sort of numb horror as she proceeds to turn out pancakes, scrambled eggs, and bacon and sausage…all of it charred nearly black.

"Lydia, for real…how are you planning on even surviving after college? You know real life doesn't come with a meal plan, right?" His eyes go wide as yet another rasher of wonderful, yummy bacon dies an ignominious death on the stove-top griddle.

Lydia shoots him a haughty look over her shoulder, flipping her hair in the same practiced move she's been doing since middle school. "Of course it does…it's called _reservations_." She transfers the burned bacon onto the plate of similarly blackened strips next to her elbow. He shakes his head and leans his body back towards the counter directly behind him, where the coffee pot is always kept full and hot, with a stack of mugs next to it. He's just got his fingers around the handle of the pot when Lydia is suddenly _right there_, all up in his personal space.

"No!" she says sharply, actually reaching forward like she's going to smack his hand away from it.

"Okay, really?!" He flails a little, nearly toppling out of his seat before righting himself. "What the hell is with you today?" He'll let the force-feeding (force-drinking? Can you force-feed liquids?) of the juice go, he'll let the sudden desire to recreate an episode of 'Worst Cooks in America' go…but he'll be damned if he's going to let anyone get between him and his coffee!

To his surprise, Lydia looks genuinely distressed for a moment. The expression is fleeting, though, and then she's shrugging dismissively. "Just…Jackson made it!" she says, all in a rush.

"What? No he didn't. I set the timer myself last night."

"After you went to bed. The boys drank it all, and Jackson refilled the basket."

He wrinkles his nose, looking back at the coffee pot. "Ugh, seriously? I told you not to let him do that anymore." Jackson has a leg up on most of the rest of the pack in that he actually knows how the coffeemaker works (Derek insists that no mere kitchen appliance needs that many buttons, and Erica claims it once tried to kill her)…but Jackson's idea of coffee could strip paint. Lydia just shrugs again, snatching up the offending pot and taking it over to the sink to dump it out. "Let's just make a fresh pot…everyone should be getting up soon."

He shoots a glance at the piles of burned food on the kitchen counter and idly wonders if they have enough Cheerios to go around.

"We're out," Lydia says briskly. Stiles just blinks at her. They're never out of coffee. Even when they're on their last roll of toilet paper and the only food to be had in the house is a jar of peanut butter and a sleeve of stale crackers, there is always plenty of coffee available. There are four werewolves and one human in their final semester of college who are frequent guests at the house, as well as two werewolves doing online courses. There is another human in his final semester of college who actually _lives_ here. They don't run out of coffee.

He opens his mouth to call her on her filthy, filthy lie. Lydia just stares at him.

He closes his mouth.

Lydia beams at him again, and sets another glass of orange juice down in front of him. She pauses for a moment, just looking at him with that same weird, almost amazed expression on her face, before she leans over and just throws her arms around him, burying her face in the crook of his neck. "Oh, _Stiles_!" she sighs against his skin, and the happiness in her voice makes him smile a little, even though he has absolutely no fucking clue how he ended up in this Twilight Zone version of his usual post-full-moon morning.

She doesn't let him get up from the counter until he's finished the second glass of juice.


	2. Chapter 2

The feeling that he has somehow slipped into an alternate reality (and how is this his life that he actually takes a good five minutes to give the possibility serious consideration before cautiously rejecting it pending further evidence?) does not abate after he retreats from the kitchen.

He considers being magnanimous and letting everyone have a fair shot at the Cheerios before his stomach rumbles threateningly and he decides that, no, he's damn well eating breakfast and the rest of the pack can fend for themselves or risk Lydia's Cajun blackened pancakes. He gleefully pours a huge bowl of cereal and milk, and-in a stark display of rebellion and as a reminder that this is _his_ house as much as it is Derek's now, damn it, and Lydia does not get to decide what he can and cannot eat—dumps enough sugar on it to put an elephant into a diabetic coma.

The fact that he does this while Lydia has her back turned and is running the garbage disposal in no way cheapens the impact of his defiance.

And he decides to have his breakfast in his and Derek's bedroom just because Derek never lets him eat in bed (that night about six months after they got together with the chocolate sauce notwithstanding). It has nothing to do with the fact that not even Lydia dares to invade their Alpha's bedroom—den, it's totally a den, no matter how much Derek growls and shakes his head in annoyance when Stiles calls it that—without express permission.

He puts the TV mounted on the wall opposite the end of the bed on the mid-morning news and happily devours his cereal, smacking his lips like a little kid when the sugar turns the milk into a sweet sludge at the bottom of the bowl. He finally hears the rest of the pack start stirring—no doubt drawn by the smells of cooking food, however badly it's been burnt—and sets the empty bowl on his nightstand before forcing himself out of the sinfully comfortable nest of pillows and blankets that smell like him and Derek even to his perfectly human nose. Just because Derek's gone for a few days doesn't mean the pack can just let up on training and practice, and it'll be up to Stiles to corral everyone out into the clearing behind the house for just that purpose.

Scott will likely remain at the house exactly long enough to put pants on before racing back into town to see Allison. The last couple of years have been hard on his oldest friend—the Argents finally seemed to realize during their senior year in high school that trying to forbid Allison's relationship in Scott was going to cost them their relationship with their daughter long before it broke her and Scott up, but things are still tense between Scott and Allison's parents. They'd finally compromised and agreed not to interfere…but Scott and Allison had to promise not to do anything to make their relationship permanent until after Allison got out of college. They could not live together. They could not get engaged.

Derek could not offer Allison the bite.

Stiles knows that not being able to _be_ with Allison properly is torture for Scott…both sides of Scott. He knows that Scott already has a ring picked out down at the local jeweler's, and has been putting away money to buy Dr. Deaton's practice when the man retires. He knows that Scott, Allison, and Derek have already talked and Derek has promised Allison the bite whenever she's ready. They _all_ know how much it cost the Argents to even admit that Allison being married and mated to Scott, being one of the creatures their family has hunted for generations, is even a possibility, let alone _accept_ it, though, so Scott agreed to their terms.

Unfortunately, just because Allison and Scott's epic love is no longer star-crossed and forbidden doesn't mean that the two are any less besotted with each other. Hence, Scott spending every waking moment possible with her. Allison's school is a little farther away from Beacon Hills, but still close enough that she's home every other weekend. And honestly, the pack's pretty much accepted that not even his 'sacred duties' as the nominal head Beta can keep Scott out at the house when Allison's in town.

Which means Stiles gets to oversee training.

Personally, Stiles can think of about a hundred other things he'd rather be doing than watching a bunch of werewolves—and a werelizard—hurl themselves at each other and various pieces of the landscape…it used to be pretty cool, but he's gotten to the point where his pack's amazing feats of strength and agility are just his version of 'normal'. If Stiles isn't there to supervise, though, they'll just end up chasing each other to the small lake at the edge of the Hale property and the only training that will get done is Jackson and Isaac seeing how many times they can throw Erica and Lydia into the water.

Granted, the amount of effort it takes to get the drop on the two women could count as training, but Lydia's revenge will be grim and terrible and nobody wants to see that.

Admittedly, Stiles _loves_ watching Lydia exact grim and terrible revenge when it's not aimed at him…but invariably Stiles is the one who has to clean up the mess, and it had taken him a good two hours to talk Isaac down from his hiding place on the roof last time.

So. Training.

He listens with half an ear to the sounds of the pack emerging from various bedrooms and thundering down the stairs. Predictably, the door to the bedroom Scott usually sleeps in when he's here slams open and Stiles hears him make a beeline straight for the front door. Lydia shouts his name, but Stiles just shakes his head. She should know better.

He finally forces himself to gather his empty bowl up and head back downstairs. He doubts very much anyone is going to be lingering over breakfast today, and the sooner they get this over with, the sooner Stiles can order a massive amount of pizza. Maybe Lydia will be over whatever weird-ass-Italian-grandmother possession has taken hold of her by lunchtime, but somehow he doubts it.

He hears Lydia speaking in a low, urgent tone as he walks down the stairs. Just as he reaches the bottom, Jackson's voice rises in a startled shout.

"No fucking way!"

"No fucking way, what?" Stiles asks curiously, taking in the sight of the entire pack huddled around Lydia like a football team reviewing a playbook. They're all wearing various expressions of shock and surprise—even Boyd, who could usually give the freakin' Buddha lessons in tranquility and Zen—and at the sound of his voice, they all whip around to face him like they've practiced the maneuver. For one strange, surreal moment, they all look like nothing so much as a group of kids who have gotten caught sneaking cookies out of a jar.

Then Erica darts forward, stopping just shy of _bowling him over_ and pushes her nose against the patch of skin just under his chin, inhaling deeply. Stiles throws his hands in the air, sloshing a few drops of sugar-thick milk onto the floor, and pushes ineffectually at her shoulder.

"Okay, what the hell?!" he demands. "Do I smell bad today or something? Do I need to switch shower gels again? 'Cause holy crap, I'm running out of options in the men's aisle that don't offend your delicate little noses and if I have to start buying Raspberry-Blossom-Goddess or whatever, there is gonna be _hell_ to pay! Don't think there won't!"

Erica steps back and giggles. She actually giggles; the sweet, trilling laugh he vaguely remembers from sixth grade, back before their classmates really started turning on her, treating her like a freak. It's a nice sound, one she doesn't let loose with nearly often enough, and it startles him out of his rant. He cocks his head slightly, watching her a touch warily, but she just giggles again at his obvious confusion and plucks the dirty bowl out of his hand.

"Here, I got that," she says, and Stiles can't helped but be alarmed as a little, imaginary tally mark suddenly appears on his imaginary "Evidence that I Have Accidentally Jumped Realities" checklist. Because he loves Erica. He does. They've gotten past all the ugliness that cropped up right after she was turned, and they're friends now. He cares about her the same way he cares about Isaac and Boyd (and, God help him, Jackson), and Erica regards him in the same hazy half-older-brother-half-pseudo-parental-figure light (that Derek assured him the one time he got up the courage to ask about it is just a consequence of his relationship with Derek) as the others do to varying degrees…but Erica is just as unhelpful when it comes to chores and such as Lydia is.

He sighs heavily, and wonders when the hell the women in his pack decided to lose their collective minds and if there was a memo or something that he missed.

Then he glances over at the guys and sees the same wide-eyed look of gobsmacked amazement on their faces. Well, Jackson also looks a bit like he's about to start laughing his ass off at some joke that Stiles' expense, but that's pretty much par for the course with Jackson.

And he actually just used the word 'gobsmacked' to describe something.

Maybe he hasn't jumped realities…maybe it was just a _sewing circle_ of ghostly Italian grandmothers and they've _all_ been possessed.

"Right. Okay. Training! Last one outside has to be the decoy!" he says, as brightly and authoritatively as possible. Surely to God a little physical activity will shake the weirdness out of everyone.

It doesn't.

Stiles is outside first, by virtue of being the only one who was already dressed, but it doesn't take long for the others to join him. He's about a third of the way through his walk-through of the various ropes, ladders, and tires that make up what has come to be known affectionately as "Werewolf Bootcamp" in Derek's back yard when he hears the rest of the pack come trooping out of the house. He glances over his shoulder…and sighs.

They're all just standing at the edge of the training area, staring at him with that same unnerving look Lydia had pinned him with earlier. Moreover, they're all just standing grouped around the outdoor table with the enormous sun umbrella that Stiles brought out from his dad's house last summer, and the plush, comfortable chaise lounge that Lydia likes to sunbathe in when she's out at the house.

Both of which should be on the back deck, and not down in the training area.

"Do one of you need me to get my dad to drop some charges or something?" he asks tiredly, not even bothering to fight when Boyd comes over and starts gently steering him towards the lounge. The bright blue umbrella casts plenty of shade, and there's a huge glass of ice water and a plate of green grapes and orange segments sitting on the table.

The pack starts shooting significant glances at each other, guilty glances, and Isaac starts gnawing on his lip as though he wants to say something. Jackson beats him to it, though, scoffing loudly. "You were really stressed out about your finals last week and everyone knows you mope like a twelve-year-old girl when Derek's not here. We're trying to be nice, quit being such a little bitch about it," he says, and steps away from the group, casually stripping down to just his gym shorts as a pattern of grey-green scales starts blooming across his back.

The others start nodding in frantic agreement as Jackson fully transforms, then start pulling their own shirts over their heads. And Stiles…Stiles doesn't believe them for an instant.

But it's a hot day, and the shade is nice. The chair is comfortable, and when he pops a grape in his mouth, it breaks sweet and juicy on his tongue. He might as well enjoy this while it lasts.

But he still adds 'getting buttered up to ask Dad if I can tamper with evidence' to his list of possible reasons for his pack suddenly going insane, right under 'possession by ghosts of Italian grandmothers' and 'alternate reality.'

And seriously, how is this his life?


	3. Chapter 3

He enjoys everyone's apparent burning, new need to make sure he does little more than laze around and watch TV all day for approximately half of the day. He manages to convince Lydia to let him make dinner for everyone, and it's actually really nice when Isaac and Boyd practically run over each other to go load the dishwasher before he does. Jackson makes room for Stiles to stretch out on the couch that evening-though he refuses to give up the TV remote, no matter how nastily Lydia glares at him. Isaac and Erica flop down to sprawl on the floor in front of him, pressing their heads close to his side and hip where he's lying down, and it's just…nice.

It immediately stops being nice when he gets up to get something to drink and realizes that there is nothing but milk, juice, water, and decaffeinated peppermint tea in the house.

"Okay! What the _actual_ fuck is going on?" he shouts, stalking back out into the living room where the pack is suddenly finding the basketball game that no one but Jackson cared about five minutes ago absolutely fascinating.

"Whoa, hey, you know I think I'm gonna go ahead and go to bed," Erica announces suddenly, standing up and stretching the guiltiest, shiftiest, most overly done stretch Stiles has ever seen. She starts slinking towards the stairs.

"The sun isn't down yet," he says, crossing his arms over his chest. Without missing a beat, Erica reverses course for the front door, Isaac and Boyd scrambling up from their seats to join her.

"Yeah, going for a run!" she calls as she and the other two all but sprint out the door and down the porch steps.

"Cowards!" Stiles shouts after them. He turns a narrow-eyed gaze on the two remaining people in the room. Jackson is flipping through channels so fast the TV screen is little more than a blur of color, while Lydia sits primly in one of the armchairs, legs crossed, as she pretends to read a science journal that has something to do with one of her classes.

Stiles knows she's faking because she hasn't whipped out a highlighter to start marking errors, yet.

She looks up when Stiles clears his throat, all wide-eyed virtue and innocently parted lips. Stiles is not fooled. He rubs the heels of his hands into his eyes, the throbbing headache that's been building for the last half hour (probably brought on by caffeine withdrawal!) suddenly taking center stage. Almost instantly, Lydia is out of her seat and hovering, soft hands fluttering delicately at his shoulders as she pushes him back towards the couch. Jackson actually mutes the television and jumps up from the couch entirely.

"Don't think I'm letting this go," Stiles mumbles while Lydia fluffs one of the throw pillows and tucks it under his head. "I'm not scared of you."

Lydia lets out a little huff of amusement. "You're terrified of me," she says affectionately.

Stiles waves one hand in the air dismissively. "Only because you're terrifying. Still gonna find out what's going on."

"Just let us take care of you until Derek gets back," Lydia says softly. It's a bit of a non sequitur, and Stiles could totally call her on it, or point out the numerous reasons that he is not some hothouse flower of a housewife that needs to be pampered until his big, strong man comes home (and even if he was, Lydia has certainly never expressed interest in doing said pampering).

Instead, he lets her run her fingers through his hair until his headache fades and he falls asleep.

* * *

Despite the pack's best efforts, he finally does find out what's going on the next night. Perhaps predictably, it's all Scott's fault.

He's endured another long day of every werewolf (and werelizard) in the house being weirdly solicitous of his every need-real or imagined—and following him around like, yes he's going to say it, lost puppies. He's been sniffed and stroked and petted within an inch of his life, and having lived with Derek for the past three years, that's _saying_ something. Really, Stiles loves him with all his heart, but Derek's issues with possessiveness could stump a national convention's worth of therapists, and his abject hatred for Stiles smelling like anyone outside of the pack is well known and documented. He's been plied with water and juice at every turn, as well as an array of increasingly healthy snacks (seriously, Lydia tries to feed him a bean sprout and avocado sandwich for lunch, and he wasn't even aware that they _had_ bean sprouts), and by dinner time he's halfway convinced that he's either dying of cancer and no one has the heart to tell him, or they're trying to fatten him up to be a sacrifice for some hitherto unknown werewolf ritual.

Then again, the fattening up could just be further evidence towards his deceased Italian grandmother theory.

The point is: everyone is being so sweet and gentle with him, it's setting his teeth on edge. No one will _talk_ to him, and Derek is supposed to be out at his parents' old friend's ranch tonight, up somewhere in the goddamn mountains where there's no cell reception. All told, he's already on edge when Scott finally surfaces from the cloud of Allison's perfume or whatever and arrives back at the house just in time for dinner (homemade lasagna and salad, because both involve lots of violent chopping of vegetables and Stiles needed the outlet. He's pretty sure he actually scared Boyd).

Scott bursts through the front door just as Stiles is scooping a piping hot square of pasta and cheesy goodness onto his plate, already babbling apologies for abandoning them for the past two days and waxing poetic about Allison's new haircut. Stiles rolls his eyes as his best friend skids to a halt at the entry-way to the dining room, taking a deep breath with an appreciative smile. Scott has always loved the Stilinski family recipe for tomato sauce. Stiles is just about to hand the plate in his hands over and get a new one for himself when Scott suddenly freezes, his eyes going comically wide. Out of the corner of his eye, Stiles thinks he sees Lydia make a frantic slashing motion across her throat, but Scott's jaw is dropping in shock.

"Holy shit! Who's pregnant?!" Scott gasps, his eyes darting between Lydia and Erica. Lydia just buries her face in her hands. Jackson looks up at the ceiling, shaking his head, while Isaac and Boyd stare incredulously at Scott.

"Okay, seriously, how the hell do _you_ outrank us?" Erica asks bitingly, glaring daggers from across the table.

Stiles, meanwhile, sets the plate down before he drops it, joining Scott in his wide-eyed regard of the two women in the pack. Pregnant? One of his girls? Well that was certainly never in his mind as a possible reason behind the pack's sudden transformation into Bizarre-O versions of themselves, but it sure as hell explains things. He's read accounts of werewolf packs preparing for the firstborn baby (cub? pup? werebaby? He's not actually sure what the term is), and things can get…intense. In fact it totally explains every-

Stiles can practically hear the record-scratch sound effect as his thoughts literally screech to a halt.

Because the pack has certainly been insanely protective of and attentive towards one of their members recently…but it's not Lydia. Or Erica.

Oh.

_Oh._

Lydia must read the dawning comprehension on his face, because her lips press into a thin, colorless line, and the glare she levels at Scott could freeze lava. "It's. Not. Me," she grits out, and Scott finally seems to realize that he's screwed up big time. "Or. Erica."

Scott's brow furrows in confusion. "Well then who—" He breaks off, turning slowly to face Stiles. Because, they'd never made a big deal out of it (hell, it wasn't like either of them had thought it'd ever even be an issue—Stiles was a firm subscriber of the 'breasts are _awesome_!' school of thought, and wouldn't have reason to question that for another several years), but of _course_ he'd told Scott when his dad took him to get tested, like most boys were when they hit thirteen or fourteen. And of course he'd told Scott when his test came back positive. Scott had sat in his room in a spirit of solidarity, reading the glossy "So You're a Carrier…What Does This Mean?" pamphlet with him cover to cover, both their ears turning scarlet at some of the diagrams.

Stiles takes a deep breath. Then another.

"Stiles—" Lydia starts, her expression sheepish and apologetic. He holds up one hand, staring down at the lasagna pan.

"I'm going for a drive," he says calmly. "I'm going by myself. If anyone follows me, I am going to be sitting on the roof with a BB gun next full moon, and _all_ of you will be hating life by morning. Got it?" He doesn't wait for an answer, just turns on his heel and strides out through the living room, snatching the keys to his Jeep (newer and safer than the one he drove all through high school, but severely lacking in character and personality, as far as Stiles is concerned) off the hook by the front door.

There is an explosion of sound as he slams the door shut behind him, several raised voices berating Scott all at once. He allows himself a little smirk as he starts the Jeep up. Someday, Scott really is going to have to learn to think before he speaks. The smirk vanishes, though, as he swings the vehicle around onto the dirt and gravel driveway that will lead him to the main road.

He intends to just do a little aimless driving, get his thoughts all in order…but it takes approximately thirty seconds for that plan to be scrapped. He knows where he's going. The drive to the local drug store only takes about ten minutes, and he grabs all three boxes they have of the lone brand of male-specific pregnancy tests they carry. He very firmly ignores the way old Mrs. Robertson's eyebrows start climbing towards her hairline as she rings him up. Her daughter works as a dispatcher down at the police station, and he's known her since he was seven.

"Please, please, please don't say anything to Jackie. I don't want the station gossip chain to know before Dad does, okay?" he begs as he forks over his credit card. Mrs. Robertson smiles kindly at him and pantomimes zipping her mouth shut. Unlike about ninety percent of the old women who live in this town, he actually believes she'll respect his privacy.

It's not…it's not that he doesn't believe Scott's nose. Well, okay, actually he kinda sorta doesn't believe Scott's nose. His friend has never been especially good at that kind of thing. But he trusts Lydia's. And the others had certainly smelled something on him (in him?) as well. He just. He needs to see it for himself. Needs to see that it's real before he can let himself think about it. Before he can let himself _feel_ anything.

His father is on the evening shift this week, and so Stiles heads to his house, drumming his fingers nervously on the steering wheel as he drives. He doesn't even bother with the pretense of checking the 'fridge for contraband or getting the mail when he lets himself in the back door. He just clutches the plastic bag with the boxes in it to his chest and races up the stairs to his old room.

Most of his posters, pictures, and personal effects have long ago been moved out to his and Derek's place or put into storage, though there are still a few things in the closet and on the bookshelves. He ignores the strange sort of happy/sad feeling he always gets when he sees his childhood bedroom looking more like an impersonal guest room, and tosses the bag onto his old bed. He scrabbles all three of the boxes open, pulling out six long, tapered, plastic sticks. Excessive? Yes. Does he care? No. He scans one of the directions sheets as he makes a beeline for the second-floor bathroom, the sticks all clutched in his fist.

Well. Looks like the pack being kind of scary about him getting enough liquids for the past couple of days is going to come in handy.


	4. Chapter 4

It takes five minutes.

Five minutes of the most awkwardly-aimed peeing of his life—and okay, yes, maybe trying to do all six tests at once wasn't his brightest idea—and he's back in his bedroom. The tests are laid out in a neat row on the bedspread in front of him ('business ends' all covered with the provided plastic caps, and wrapped in toilet paper besides, because eeeeeewwwww), and he watches as a little, bright blue "plus" sign swims into view on the end of every one.

He lets out a soft, strangled little breath.

Holy shit. Holy _shit_. He'd known—he'd known the pack wouldn't have acted the way they had been if they hadn't been sure, but this…this he can see with his own two eyes.

He just sits there, gasping and dizzy with the enormity of what he's looking at, some mix of emotions bubbling in his chest that's almost too crazed and chaotic to identify. He can't—he doesn't even know how to process this. His thoughts haven't run themselves in circles like this in years.

"You, uh…you don't look very happy."

He's been living with werewolves for too long to be startled by voices and the people attached to them just appearing out of nowhere anymore, but he shoots Scott a mildly irritated look. His friend shrugs sheepishly, stepping into the bedroom fully. "You left the back door unlocked," he says by way of explanation, shifting tentatively from foot to foot, as though unsure of his welcome.

"Did you think I was kidding about the BB gun thing?" Stiles asks.

"Hey, I didn't follow you! I just knew this was where you'd be," Scott defends himself, and then his eyes and mouth go kind of soft at the corners. "I was worried. And…sorry, man, but you can't just run off by yourself like that. Not now. Everyone was going _nuts_."

Stiles regards his best friend through narrowed eyes for a moment more, before sighing heavily and waving Scott over to the bed. Scott grins crookedly and plops down beside him on the mattress.

"I can't believe…I mean, I knew I _could_. I got The Talk from my dad and my doctor, and let me tell you, there are few things as traumatizing as listening to some sixty year old dude explain sex between two guys to you…" Stiles trails off, forcibly biting his lips together to stem the flow of babble that wants to spew forth. Scott doesn't say anything, just waits patiently for Stiles to sort out what point he actually wants to make.

"Just…when I started the Adderall, they told us it would probably mess that up for me. Uh…you know…the hormones and stuff. I didn't care. I mean, I was fourteen! Why the hell would I care that it might make it harder for me to have _kids_ someday? I figured I was gonna marry Lydia and she'd be the one worrying about it."

Scott chuckles a little, scooting closer so that their knees are brushing. "Does Derek know? That you can get pr-pregnant, I mean." Stiles has to laugh a little at the way Scott stumbles over the word…like they're back in middle school health class, blushing and giggling stupidly whenever anyone says 'penis.'

"Of course he knows," Stiles says chidingly. Like Stiles would keep something like that from the person he loves most in the world. Like Stiles would keep something like that from _Derek_, when he knows family and pack are sacred in Derek's eyes…especially with the losses he's suffered. His shoulders slump a little. "But I was serious about the medications…practically anything can throw a guy's system out of whack, even worse than it does for girls, and the longer you're on anything, the worse it gets. I asked…I asked my doctor after Derek and I, well, after we moved in together, if I'd still be able to have kids. She wasn't very optimistic."

His doctor had actually told him, very gently and very sympathetically, that while nothing was impossible, the years of being on medication had probably dropped his chances of conceiving down to almost nil. Adderall wasn't really known for causing fertility issues in women, but for men _everything_ was different. Any type of long-term medication tended to cause problems, and those problems usually persisted even after the medication was stopped. It had about broken his heart to put the idea of having children that were _theirs_, made up of both of _them_, on the table for Derek and then have to pretty much take it away in the same breath.

"Well. Guess you proved her wrong," Scott says blithely, and suddenly Stiles has to swallow, hard.

"It's not that easy," he says slowly. "I mean…I mean, I know why Lydia and the others didn't tell me right off the bat. I can't be more than a few weeks along. I mean, no way in hell Derek would've left if _he_ had smelled it on me, so it must've just become, you know, noticeable. Statistically…statistically…" He can't get the words out.

He knows that back when he first got tested, male pregnancies accounted for less than five percent of recorded live births worldwide. It said so right on those glossy, ridiculous pamphlets that they'd read. He knows that percentage hasn't gone up all that much in the ensuing years. It's still unusual, still incredibly uncommon. Men who have this particular genetic quirk still have even lower chances of conceiving and carrying to term than women do, and the early miscarriage rate…well. Yes, he knows why the pack kept it to themselves when they figured it out.

"Dude," Scott says, his voice earnest and urgent as he reaches up and grips Stiles' shoulder. "This kid has _you_ for a dad. It's got you and Derek for dads. You really think statistics are gonna mean anything?"

Times like this, Stiles remembers exactly why Scott is and always will be his best friend.

Scott grins at him, wide, and goofy, shaking him a little. "You're gonna be a dad, man! Oh my God, I'm gonna be an uncle!"

And it hits him.

He's having a baby. He's having a _baby_. A little person…a little person that's half him and half Derek. Holy motherfucking _shit_, they're going to be parents! He feels an answering grin breaking across his face like sunshine, and then he and Scott are both laughing wildly. The crazy, frenzied swirl of emotion bubbles up in his chest, stealing his breath, and he finally recognizes it for what it is: pure, incandescent _joy_.

* * *

They drive back to the house together, stopping at a drive-thru for the dinner neither of them ate. Scott gets the strangest look on his face when Stiles starts ordering burgers, fries and milkshakes, shaking his head slightly when Stiles pauses and raises a questioning eyebrow.

"Nothing, nothing…just…I kind of feel like I don't want you eating that crap. Like, _really_ don't want you eating it."

Stiles groans, thumping his head lightly against his steering wheel. "Would it help if I get the chicken salad wrap and a bottled water?" he asks fatalistically, his voice muffled against the horn. Scott purses his lips a moment, before nodding sadly.

"Yeah. Yeah, it would. Otherwise, I think I might have to jump out of the car and hunt you down a fresh rabbit or something."

"Salad wrap it is! Awesome, awesome salad wrap! I love salad wraps!" He pays for the food and wonders disconsolately if this is how his dad has felt all the years Stiles has been harping on him to eat right. They are halfway back to the house when another, horrifying thought occurs to him. "Okay, just warning you. If Derek tries to bring me dead animals in our bedroom, I'm staying with you and your mom until the baby's born."

He's pretty sure the utterly besotted grin that breaks out on his face when he says 'baby' ruins the effect of the threat.

"Oh hey, none of them told Derek, right?" he asks, as he pulls into the long drive that leads back to the house. He supposes he can deal with practically their entire family knowing he was going to have a baby before he did…but he really wants to see Derek's face when he finds out. He really, _really_ wants to share that moment with his mate, he realizes.

Beside him, Scott snorts. "Did you hear any sonic booms over the town when he broke the sound barrier to get back here? Of course they didn't tell him," he says dryly.

Stiles just grins.

The pack is trying and utterly failing to look casual when he and Scott enter the living room. Jackson clearly turned the TV to a random sports channel mere seconds before they opened the front door (Stiles knows this because no matter how studiously he, Isaac, and Boyd are pretending to watch it, none of them like or even understand curling). Erica and Lydia have clearly been cleaning the kitchen to within an inch of its life in an effort to get back on his good side (Stiles knows this because the only time they _ever_ willingly pick up a dish rag is when they've done something they know has pissed him off, because everyone is well aware that Stiles loves to cook and hates to clean, and taking over KP is the fastest route to his forgiveness). They are all five darting quick, barely-there looks at him as they pretend to go about doing things casually like they aren't worried (even Jackson), and Stiles can tell Isaac is about thirty seconds away from whining his distress. Even so, he lets them stew another few moments, before smiling broadly at them.

"Just so you know, I'm totally milking this for all it's worth, now," he says brightly, and just like that the tension breaks.

His pack look at each other, and then they're swarming him, practically lifting him off his feet as he's passed around for hugs and congratulations and (in Jackson's case) manly slaps on the back and inquiries as to whether or not this means they can start calling him "Mom" un-ironically.

And as soon as Derek gets home, Stiles is pretty sure his life is going to be just about as close to perfect as it's ever going to be.


	5. Chapter 5

Stiles hadn't realized that the pack was actually being _subtle_ about their attempts to surround him in what basically amounts to a giant bubble of cosseting made up of werewolves (and a werelizard). With everything out in the open, they all seem to take it as tacit permission to ramp things up to, like, an eleven. Stiles passes the evening on the couch in the living room, literally surrounded on all sides by his friends.

Scott lounges against his side, practically pulling Stiles half onto his lap in a maneuver that used to be awkward as hell—there may actually be at least a dozen pictures in existence of the two of them sharing baths, but just because they got naked together when they were four doesn't mean it wasn't weird when Scott wanted to cuddle when they were _eighteen_-but is now hardly even worth noticing. Lydia and Jackson plaster themselves against his other side (well, he suspects Jackson is mostly interested in plastering himself to Lydia, but he does kind of pat Stiles' back in a semi-affectionate way and doesn't glare too much when Lydia rests her head on Stiles' shoulder). Boyd and Isaac flop down on the floor right in front of him, and Erica smirks a little before draping herself all along the cushioned back of the couch, her knees tucked into the backs of Jackson's shoulders and one warm hand curling around the back of Stiles' neck, playing with his hair.

Stiles can't help but bask, a little.

He's a very tactile person. It's a thing.

Admittedly, this kind of behavior will likely get real old, real fast; especially as everyone in the pack but Jackson puts out body heat like a furnace. He hasn't been around a _lot_ of pregnant people, but he's pretty sure heat becomes a bitter, bitter enemy the last couple of months. He's about ninety percent sure that a lot of this is just because Derek is gone, though. Everything he's been able to read and research suggests that he can probably expect the pack to be hyper-aware of him and his well-being—especially since he's still human. However, they should probably be able to back off and give him some breathing space once their Alpha is there to take over the care and feeding of him and their new cub-to-be. Pup-to-be? Werebaby-to-be? Seriously, he needs to find out…that's totally going to bug him.

He'd try and remind everyone that he's quite capable of his own care and feeding, thank you very much, and is actually quite often more responsible for _their_ care and feeding than they are…but he's pretty sure that by the time he got it through their instinct-clouded heads, he'd be _ready_ to just sit back and let people wait on him. So really, why fight it?

It's much easier to just bask.

They put on a stupid science fiction movie that half of them have never seen and the other half can recite every line of (no guesses as to what half he and Scott belong to), and when Erica rolls off the couch to make popcorn, he successfully negotiates his own bowl with butter and salt by promising not to fight Lydia on the bean sprouts tomorrow. And seriously, he's going to have to call his dad sometime this week and thank him for not complaining more than he did all those years that Stiles was watching his diet like a hawk. Stiles now completely understands how _incredibly_ annoying it must have been.

Stiles is going to have to call his dad sometime this week, anyway. He knows he should wait, knows he should hold it off, maybe wait until he has some ultrasound pictures or something.

But screw it.

He's having a _baby_. Dad's going to be a _grandfather_, and Stiles can't wait to tell him. He's having a baby, and that bright little bubble of happiness swoops through his chest again, until he's grinning stupidly at the screen where some poor slob who went off to investigate the strange noises his spaceship was making alone is now getting his face ripped off. The smile doesn't slip as one movie bleeds into another and he finds his head dropping further and further onto Scott's shoulder.

* * *

He wakes up sprawled out on the empty couch with a blanket tucked around his shoulders and sunlight streaming in through the front windows. He makes a startled, displeased noise and immediately smashes his face down into the pillow that someone had grabbed from the linen closet upstairs. He decides whoever did that is his new favorite—the throw pillows that Lydia and Allison picked out for the living room furniture are fine for napping on, but sleeping the whole night through on one just leads to pain. It was probably Isaac. He sort of remembers Lydia and Jackson going to bed at one point while he was still propped up on Scott, shortly followed by Boyd. Scott wouldn't have thought to go to the second-floor linen closet and Erica thinks the throw pillows are awesome. Good, Isaac's usually his favorite anyway.

He's trying to decide if he needs to go to the bathroom badly enough that going back to sleep isn't an option, when two things penetrate his addled consciousness. One: It is _finally_ Tuesday, and Derek is due back sometime tomorrow morning. And two: the sound of gravel crunching under tires is sounding from outside as someone comes up the driveway.

He flails a little on the couch, untangling himself from the blanket and nearly rolling onto the floor in the process, before right himself. He jumps to his feet as Isaac appears in the doorway leading to the kitchen, a steaming coffee mug in one hand.

"It's your dad," Isaac says softly. "He's not in the cruiser, though, so I don't think we need you to talk him into dropping any charges." Stiles' brow furrows in confusion. What is his father doing here? He scrubs a hand over his face, trying to get his brain to start firing on all cylinders by sheer force of will. Isaac grins at him. "Scott just dragged everyone out the back door…we're all gonna go down to the lake so you can talk to him in private."

"What, no honor guard?" Stiles asks, and he's only half joking. Isaac snorts indelicately.

"We can be back here in, like, thirty seconds. Plus, your dad's armed." He holds out the mug to Stiles with a small smile.

"Don't suppose that's coffee?" Stiles asks as he takes it, desperate for anything even remotely resembling caffeine. Isaac shakes his head, though.

"Sorry…Lydia'd slit my throat. It's tea. But she hid the sugar behind the chicken in the freezer, so whatever you want to do with that knowledge..." The smile turns into a mischievous smirk, and Stiles reaches up to grab the back of Isaac's head, drawing him down a bit so he can plant a smacking, theatrical kiss on Isaac's forehead.

"You're _so_ my favorite," Stiles says fervently. "You get to be the best uncle, now. Scott's gonna have to step up his game."

"Uncle Isaac," Isaac says softly, and his voice has that quiet, wondering note in it that Isaac gets sometimes, like it still surprises him that he's actually a part of this whacked-out family, that he's actually wanted here. It always kind of makes Stiles want to just hug him, to be honest.

"Yeah," he says gently. "Uncle Isaac." Then, before the atmosphere gets too heavy, he adds, "which, let me tell you, is a lot more reassuring than Uncle Jackson. Or, oh my _God_, Aunt Lydia."

That startles a laugh out of Isaac, the pensiveness vanishing from his features. He cocks his head slightly and a moment later, Stiles hears the thud of work boots hitting the floorboards of the porch. Isaac winks at him and heads out towards the back door, just as Stiles' dad starts knocking.

He sets the mug down on the coffee table and walks over to the door, a sudden flutter of nervousness unfurling in his stomach. Not bad nervousness, per se, more like a shiver of anticipation. His dad is going to _flip_. Stiles is looking forward to it. He throws the door open with a wide grin, just as his dad is raising his fist to knock again.

"Hey, father of mine," Stiles sing-songs brightly, "what brings you out our way this morning?"

His father just raises an eyebrow at him. "It's a quarter past noon," he says dryly, and Stiles blinks. Well. That certainly explains the angle of the sunlight slanting through the front windows…and why his stomach is suddenly attempting to eat through his spine. He just shrugs, though.

"To-may-toe, to-mah-toe," he says, stepping aside so that his father can enter. "Have you had lunch, yet?" He doesn't wait for an answer, just heads straight for the kitchen, swiping his mug up off the table and leaving his dad to trail behind. He has a strong suspicion, and he's proven right when he enters the kitchen to find a plate of sandwiches sitting on the counter. Several more empty plates are sitting in the sink, and there are breadcrumbs scattered across the countertop. Evidently he managed to sleep through the pack making their own lunch, and when was the last time that happened?

There are, as promised, bean sprouts and avocado peeking out from the edges of the bread, along with sliced turkey and cheese. Someone evidently reminded Lydia that Stiles is not actually a vegetarian. He looks up with a smile as his dad follows him into the kitchen.

"Derek's due back tomorrow, right? Everything go okay with the, uh, the other pack?" he asks.

"Yup. And I dunno, this Randall guy lives out in the boondocks…no cell reception at all. But from everything I could find out, their pack hasn't made trouble with anyone since, like, the thirties, and I guess the Hales were really good friends with them. I'm not worried."

His dad nods, hands shoved casually into the pockets of his jeans.

A little _too_ casually.

Stiles' eyes narrow slightly as he takes a bite out of one of the sandwiches, holding the plate out to his father with a questioning tilt of his head. The man declines, eyes focused intently on Stiles' face. "So," Stiles says as soon as he swallows, "what _are_ you doing out here? I mean, not that I'm not happy to see you…but you're working nights this week. Shouldn't you be sleeping?"

"What, I need an excuse to come and see my only son?" he says with a laugh, and Stiles knows that tone. "I just wanted to say 'hi'. See how you're doing. See if there's anything, you know, new going on. Anything at all."

"Oh my God, how'd you find out?!" Stiles bursts out, eyes wide. "_You_ can't smell it on me. Uh-uh, no, this goes _way_ beyond freaky ninja parent powers. Who told you? Was it Scott? I bet it was Scott. I don't know when he had time to talk to you, but it had to be Scott."

"Hey," his dad interrupts, "I'm running unopposed this year for a reason, you know. I've got some skills." He holds a falsely affronted expression for about three seconds before his lips twitch. "Also, you left the instructions for the test out on the bathroom sink."

Oh. Oh yeah.

Stiles slumps, taking another, slightly dejected bite out of his sandwich. "Well, there goes my surprise," he mumbles around the food.

"So…it was positive?" his dad says softly, and there's a choked, quavering note in his voice that makes Stiles look up. His dad is just staring at him, lips pressed together. Stiles couldn't swear to it, but his dad actually looks a little teary.

Stiles grins a him, bright, happy, and open. "Congratulations. You're gonna be a grandpa."

And yes, those are tears in his dad's eyes.

Stiles barely has time to set his sandwich down before he's enveloped in his father's arms, almost lifted off his feet as his dad hugs him so tightly it's a little hard to breathe. Stiles doesn't mind, though, and hugs him back just as tightly. Then they're both laughing at nothing, maybe just laughing from sheer happiness, and it's been so _long_ since he had a moment like this with his father.

Eventually his dad lets go and steps back, swiping at his eyes unashamedly. "I can't believe this. My little boy's going to be a parent," he says, his voice going low and choked again. He reaches up to lay both hands on Stiles' shoulders, squeezing him a little. "You're gonna be a _great_ dad," he says, serious and solemn, the words so full of rock-solid faith that Stiles feels a lump rising in his throat.

"Y-yeah, well…I had the best example," he whispers, and just because he can, he pushes forward and wraps his arms around his dad's middle again.

How long they stand like that, he's not sure, but eventually his father's chest rumbles in a little chuckle. "Now. If there's any justice in the world, this kid's gonna be just like you, so you can see _exactly_ what I went through."

And even though the thought of a little _werewolf_ with ADHD sends a little shiver of fear up Stiles' spine, he can't help his answering laugh.


	6. Chapter 6

There's a nervous, anticipatory energy that fills the house for the rest of the day after Stiles' dad finally leaves (with promises to take the whole pack out to dinner after Derek gets home to celebrate properly, and a reminder that Stiles needs to call his doctor ASAP). As before, though…it's not a bad sort of tension. It feels more like the moments right before a rainstorm on a hot day, or that instant you suck in your breath to scream right before you plunge down the first big drop on a roller coaster. There's a little thread of anxiety, of course, but mostly it's just pure _exhilaration_. It's the knowledge that what's coming is going to be earth-shatteringly amazing.

At least, it is for Stiles. Though, judging by the conspiratorial, mischievous grins everyone keeps shooting him, he's not the only one looking forward to Derek's reaction to his news.

Allison calls him from school just before dinnertime, and Scott can only shrug sheepishly as Stiles is immediately forced to hold the phone away from his ear as she shrieks her excitement. Stiles flips his best friend off as Jackson smacks him upside the head, but it's hard to be angry when Allison's happiness for him is practically oozing out over the cell connection. She makes him promise at least six times that he will email her copies of all his ultrasound pictures when he gets them, and starts waxing rhapsodic about decorating a nursery and buying baby clothes.

Lydia abruptly jerks upright in her chair, back as ramrod straight as though she's been struck by lightning, and Stiles can literally _see_ the wolf-pack-den instincts go down in a fiery tailspin when confronted with the girl-shop-fashion instincts. Stiles sighs regretfully and waves a metaphorical goodbye to having any say on what his child's nursery theme will be, or what he or she will be wearing for the first five years or so of their life.

And damn it, he may or may not have found an online vendor that made Star Wars crib bedding earlier that afternoon.

Allison wrings one more promise of ultrasound pictures out of him before hanging up (and immediately calling Scott, who vanishes out onto the back deck to take the call). Stiles shakes his head as he tucks his phone back into his jeans pocket, and rolls his eyes as Lydia immediately opens her mouth, one perfectly manicured finger in the air.

"Yes, you can decorate the nursery, but Derek and I get veto power. And I want gender-neutral!" he says before she can speak. He shoots her his sternest look, and she subsides with a smirk and a placating gesture.

The blueberries that Isaac bought before the full moon are now too ripe to do anything but bake with, so Stiles spends the evening in the kitchen. He whips up double batches of his mom's blueberry muffins (ostensibly for breakfast tomorrow, but even with the double batching, he doubts they'll last 'til morning) and throws the rest of them into a quick crumble that he sets out on the island almost as soon as it comes out of the oven, along with a handful of spoons. He doesn't bother with bowls or saucers, and when Boyd and Lydia try to make noises about how he shouldn't be eating too many sweets, he threatens to throw the whole thing out for the birds if anyone tries to stop him digging in.

They all crowd around the island, scooping out spoonfuls of syrupy-sweet berries topped with cinnamon streusel, and pass a couple of hours coming up with increasingly ridiculous plans to 'surprise' Derek with the news that he's going to be a father, and somehow preserve the moment for posterity. Stiles is laughing helplessly at a scheme involving hanging about five hundred car air fresheners from the rafters and hooking a webcam up to a remote-controlled racecar, when Erica suddenly freezes with her spoon halfway to her mouth, a look of strangled horror on her face.

Jackson chuckles, a sardonic twist to his mouth. "You just realized we now have undeniable proof that they fuck like rabbits, didn't you?"

"God, _that's_ impossible to miss," Erica says hotly, rolling her eyes. "But no, now I'm _picturing_ it. And I know who does what! Ugh, I feel like I just walked in on my parents!"

This provokes another outburst of wild laughter, and Stiles flicks a blueberry at her. They wind down a little after the last of the crumble is devoured, their plans becoming less and less reminiscent of a giant Rube Goldberg machine, until they all just agree to greet Derek as a pack when he comes home tomorrow morning and let nature take its course.

And let Isaac take cellphone video. If he does it at the right angle, lens-flare shouldn't be a problem, and _nobody_ is going to miss seeing their Alpha absolutely blindsided by something for once.

They end up in the living room watching movies again, but this time Stiles decides to drag himself to bed instead of passing another night on the couch. He lies awake reading until around ten, listening with half an ear as the rest of the pack eventually make their ways to their own rooms. He burrows deeper under the covers, smiling at the knowledge that Derek will be back home with them, with him, tomorrow.

The thing is, Derek must have some kind of weird Alpha sense about when his pack is up to something…because of _course_ he wrecks their plans.

It's late in the night. So late, it's actually early when Stiles startles awake, blinking muzzily as he registers the mattress dipping slightly with new weight. He has one brief instant where his half-awake brain tries to decide if he needs to be scared, and then warm, familiar arms are sliding around his waist, drawing him back against an equally familiar chest.

"Yr'back er'ly," he mumbles, rubbing his hand over his eyes and trying to dispel the cobwebs of sleep. "Why did'n someone come get me?"

He hears the muffled thump of Derek's shoes hitting the carpet, and then he's crawling fully into the bed with Stiles. "Dropped the car off at the end of the driveway."

"They should've, hmm, smelled you." Stiles flails with one arm until it makes contact with Derek's denim-clad hip.

"Yes, they should've," Derek agrees. "But that's why I'm the Alpha."

"You're a _showoff_ is what you are," Stiles says, no real heat to his words. There was something he was gonna tell Derek…why is it always so hard to get his thoughts together at three-thirty in the morning?

Derek chuckles, warm breath tripping across the back of Stiles' neck as he leans in close, pushing his nose against Stiles' nape with a rumble of contentment, and just _breathing_…

Oh, yeah! Now he remembers what he wanted to tell Derek.

Stiles knows the moment Derek realizes the difference in his scent. His entire body goes absolutely still, still and so quiet Stiles might think he was suddenly laying in bed with a statue if he couldn't feel the soft puff of breath against his neck. Derek inhales again, his arms tightening minutely and Stiles…Stiles swears he can feel a little tremor suddenly running through the hands splayed out on his abdomen.

"_Stiles_," Derek whispers, and the tone of his voice has Stiles turning in the circle of his arms, reaching back with one hand to flounder blindly across his nightstand until he hits the switch at the base of his bedside lamp.

Soft, golden light floods the room and Derek is just staring at him, the barest sheen of red in his irises. His throat is working soundlessly, and he suddenly fists a hand in the back of the shirt Stiles wore to bed, clutching spasmodically.

"Surprise?" Stiles offers weakly. "I was gonna just bake you a 'Welcome Home' cake, but that seemed a little passé. Also, Jackson makes enough jokes about me being your wife…and, uh, I guess this probably isn't going to help with that, actually, but you know me. I don't think these things through that well. And…and you don't look happy. I thought you'd be happy—" Stiles trails off, and he knows he sounds a little lost, but Derek is still just staring at him.

And okay, he wasn't expecting effervescent excitement and babbled declarations of love and joy—even after all these years, Derek is still kind of terrible at the whole 'talking' part of expressing emotion, which is why Stiles usually does enough talking for both of them. But he wasn't expecting Derek to just lie there and look like someone hit him in the back of the head with a baseball bat.

"You said…I thought your doctor said you couldn't, anymore…" Derek's voice has gone rough now, something a little wrecked in it.

"She said I 'almost certainly' couldn't anymore," Stiles corrects gently. "But apparently 'almost' really does only count with horseshoes and hand grenades and you have really stubborn sperm. So, you know, good job on that! Yay, you." Stiles pats Derek's chest, tilting his head slightly as something flickers in Derek's expression.

Oh. Oh, now _that_, he recognizes.

He recognizes it from the days right after he, Scott, and Allison officially aligned themselves with what had been Derek's pack. The days when they had slowly started working out their differences and learning to trust each other. He recognizes it from the first time one of them had finally snapped, and Derek shoving him into the nearest wall had somehow morphed to him gripping Derek's jacket and pulling him _closer_ and to this day, neither of them is really sure who started kissing who first. He recognizes it from the first time he hollered out an order at Isaac during a fight with a group of hunters and Isaac actually obeyed.

It's something a little hesitant, a little vulnerable. It's like Derek is looking at everything he's ever wanted—his most cherished dreams and deepest hopes—all laid out in front of him and he can't bring himself to believe he really gets to have it. It's the look of someone who can't keep themselves from looking for the punchline when they have happiness offered to them, who can't stop waiting for it to be snatched back.

Stiles relaxes, his smile going soft and gentle. "Hey," he murmurs, sliding one hand down Derek's shoulder and tugging at his forearm until Derek's hand leaves his back and their fingers tangle together. "This is happening," he says, dragging their joined hands to push up under his shirt and rest on his still-flat stomach. His smile turns into a sly little smirk. "No takesie-backsies, Mr."

And then Derek's whole body seems to shudder and he's suddenly pulling Stiles so tightly against him that there's not even space for _air_ between their bodies, rolling them over so he can hover above Stiles as he presses frantic kisses against his mouth, his jaw, his neck, his collarbone. There's more red than hazel in his eyes when he looks up at Stiles again, and Stiles can see the little flash of distended fangs in his mouth, but he's not afraid. He just pulls Derek against him, lets Derek nose against his neck to his heart's content, smiles when Derek strokes his belly almost reverently, and holds on tighter when he hears a hitch in Derek's breathing, a soft ragged gasp that will never be tears—but needs to be soothed anyway.

The others are going to be disappointed that they didn't get to ambush Derek with the news, but this, he thinks…this is better. And when Derek finally settles onto the mattress beside him, still so close they may as well be one being, the absolutely brilliant, blinding, joyful grin on Derek's face is something he's selfishly glad he doesn't have to share with anyone else.


	7. Chapter 7

_March_

The first couple of weeks pass by almost in a blur of doctor visits, referrals, and more consultations than Stiles is strictly comfortable with. Mostly because they all involve traveling at least a couple of hours by car, and, well, Stiles gets bored in the car easily. The doctor he's had since he was fifteen, Dr. Sanders, is only a family practitioner, though, not an OB-GYN. As soon as Stiles' blood tests confirm what the pack (and the best drug-store pee stick fifteen dollars could buy) already told him, though, she recommends that he be placed under the care of a doctor that specializes in high-risk pregnancies.

Derek's hand tightens on his knee when Dr. Sanders starts using words like 'high-risk'. He relaxes a little when she reassures him that all of Stiles' tests look fabulous so far (she can't quite keep the note of surprise out of her voice), but male pregnancies are _always_ treated as high-risk, just in case. Not much, but a little.

Dr. Sanders sends them home with a list of 'Do's and Do-Not's' that Lydia immediately snatches out of Stiles' hands when they get back to the house. Within two hours, every pack member has a laminated copy, with extras taped onto the refrigerator door, the inside of every bathroom medicine chest, and the top of Stiles' dresser. He glares accusingly at Derek at the last one. Nobody enters their bedroom without permission, so either Derek let Lydia do it, or he did it himself.

Derek looks unrepentant.

They meet with several doctors off of Dr. Sanders' list of referrals, eventually finding an office with an excellent reputation about an hour and a half away from Beacon Hills. The staff is warm and welcoming, the doctor gives off an aura of calm competence, and (most importantly), they've had experience with male pregnancies—though Stiles will be the first man on their patient roster this year. Stiles gets a good feeling as soon as he enters the office, though, and Dr. Evers manages to impress Derek by answering every question the man has without missing a beat, and refusing to sugar-coat any of the risks that Stiles and the baby might face. By the end of the consultation, both he and Derek are confident in choosing Evers as their doctor.

It will mean bi-weekly trips all the way out to his office for checkups…but they both think it's worth it. The little thrill that races through Stiles when they make the appointment for their first ultrasound is hard to describe.

As he had predicted, the others back off a little now that Derek's back. Oh, they still hover…it's been a while since _everyone_ spent this much time at the Hale house, but at least nobody tries to kick him out of the kitchen anymore (though that might have something to do with the fact that if they didn't let Stiles cook, likely they'd be living on sandwiches and takeout until the baby was born). They still refuse to let him do anything even remotely resembling 'heavy-lifting,' of course, but Stiles is only too glad to relinquish his rotations in the dishes-laundry-vacuuming duty roster.

As the month draws to a close, though, everyone starts tensing up again. Erica, Isaac, and Boyd start circling in closer. Lydia and Jackson barely spend any time at _all_ at the apartment they share in town. His and Derek's bedroom and the bathroom are pretty much the only places Scott doesn't follow him, and Derek…Derek starts looking _pained_ whenever he thinks Stiles isn't looking. No one says anything, though, and it's not until Stiles sees Lydia sitting at the dining room table with a stack of work for one of her classes that he realizes what everyone's so riled up about.

His spring break is almost over.

He supposes he can be forgiven for not realizing the date, what with the whole _discovering he's going to be responsible for another human/werewolf life_ thing…but yeah, he's supposed to be back at school in a few days.

And it's not like he's on the other side of the country or anything. He commutes to school—about a forty five minute drive from Beacon Hills—and he only has three classes this semester, so he actually only has to go to class four days a week. He'll be home before the sun even goes down on all those days.

He doesn't go to the same campuses as Lydia, Scott, Jackson, or Boyd though. Erica and Isaac take online courses, but it's not like it's fair to them to ask them to take up bodyguard duty. They can't follow him into his classes, anyway. Derek works down at a garage in town—more to have something to _do_ other than sit around and look like a cult leader than out of any real need for the money. Stiles knows the thought of him walking around alone on campus made Derek a little uncomfortable before. Now, though? The thought has to be driving Derek _nuts_.

He can just picture Derek keeping himself up at night, imagining Stiles suddenly finding himself the target of rogue Omegas, Hunters breaking the Code, or one of the other various and sundry supernatural beasties they've faced over the years, with no one from the pack to back him up. It's ridiculous. It's paranoid. Given their history, it's…

Not all that unreasonable an assumption. Damn it.

And here's the thing: he knows that Derek and the others trust him to take care of himself. It's hard for them sometimes, but Stiles has proven himself a hundred times over and everyone _knows_ that. He knows Derek doesn't see him as weak…none of them see him as weak. He also knows that their protective instincts are going haywire, and if he was actually a werewolf his own instincts would be screaming at him to stick close to home-pack-mate. He knows it must be tying Derek in knots to let Stiles go back to school alone, to let him out of the pack's sight even those few hours a day. That he's willing to do it at all is testament to how much he trusts Stiles, how much he loves Stiles.

He's got one more semester to go before he graduates with his Bachelor's. He's _not_ deferring his graduation for another year. Jackson can make as many snide comments as he wants, Stiles is not _actually_ a 50's housewife and has no interest in being someone who puts all their career plans and schooling on hold to be barefoot and pregnant. But…

Oh hell, it's not like he didn't know what he was getting into when he got wolf-married to the Alpha of their pack.

Stiles sits on the back deck with his laptop during training that morning and starts emailing his professors and his academic advisor.

The next night, he sits up in bed, his laptop balanced on his knees, and waits for Derek to slide into bed next to him. He smiles as Derek winds one around his waist, pressing his cheek against the jut of Stiles' hip.

"What're you looking at?" he asks curiously, tilting his head slightly to get a better look at the laptop's screen. Stiles doesn't answer, just turns the computer around so Derek can see it without craning his neck. Derek's brow furrows as he sees Stiles' school email screen pulled up, then his eyes widen slightly as he starts reading through the email Stiles' advisor had sent back to him.

"What is this?" Derek asks softly, and Stiles rolls his eyes a little.

"It's an email, duh. More specifically, it's an email saying that all my professors are willing to let me finish out my courses through correspondence so I don't have to do so much commuting. I still have to go to senior seminar, but Professor Jameson agreed to let me switch into her Friday class. And she's pretty chill, so you know, if someone were to happen to come to class with me, she wouldn't care. You know anyone who has Fridays free?"

In fact, Derek always has Fridays off.

Tension has been leaving Derek's shoulders with every word Stiles speaks, and by the time he's finished, Derek is shaking his head fondly, arm tightening around Stiles' waist. "You didn't have to do this," he says.

Stiles closes the laptop, running his fingers through Derek's hair with his free hand. "Oh trust me, pregnant or not, if you think I'm going to let you railroad me into doing something I don't want to do…you haven't been paying attention these past few years." He sets the laptop on his nightstand and wiggles under the comforter, letting Derek wrap himself around him. "However, in this particular instance, I don't mind indulging you."

Derek chuckles, a sound that Stiles still treasures for all that it's slowly become more and more common over the years. "That's very magnanimous of you." He sobers almost immediately though, rolling them so that Stiles is laying half on top of his chest. Stiles settles comfortably, crossing his arms over Derek's collarbones and pillowing his chin on top of them. He tilts a questioning eyebrow as Derek reaches up to cradle the back of his skull with one hand, his thumb stroking the nape of Stiles' neck. "Thank you," Derek says, voice low and graveled.

Stiles stretches forward to kiss him lightly, affectionately, before grinning…just a touch maniacally. "You just remember this when I'm kicking you awake at three in the morning to go get me pickles and ice cream," he says brightly.

He laughs as Derek's expression seems to freeze. "That…that doesn't actually happen, does it?" he asks warily, and Stiles can only laugh harder at the half wary, half disgusted look on Derek's face. He reaches up and pats Derek's cheek mockingly.

"Nah, according to Dad, my mom never once asked him for pickles and ice cream," he says. Derek looks almost comically relieved, and Stiles' grin turns wicked.

"She wanted chocolate pudding and General Tso's chicken."


	8. Chapter 8

_April_

Stiles would be lying if he said he wasn't dreading the appearance of morning sickness. He was expecting it, he was bracing for it, but when it actually appears, it turns out that (like every other aspect of his life) Stiles doesn't do anything by halves. Also, morning sickness is a bit of a misnomer. It's not just the morning. Or the afternoon. Or the evening. It is all the _damn_ time. When it hits him in early April, Stiles finds himself kneeling over the nearest toilet, sink, or bucket (and, once, Erica's shoes) at least five times a day. Usually closer to eight.

The others go absolutely nuts. If Stiles wasn't so miserable, it might actually be funny to watch Scott, Erica, and Isaac actually start vibrating back and forth whenever Stiles vomits in their vicinity…their need to crowd in close and make sure he's okay warring with their absolute _disgust_ at the stream of nastiness coming out of Stiles' mouth. Lydia buys Gatorade and ginger ale like she's stockpiling for an apocalypse, and Boyd and Jackson find lots of really interesting things to do outside whenever Stiles starts swallowing hard.

Stiles isn't sure what he was expecting Derek to do. It's kind of been a crapshoot when Stiles has been sick…for every time Derek has brought him cold towels and then stretched out on the bed beside him to read aloud in a quiet, soothing voice there's at least as many examples of Derek just dumping him on the couch with the TV remote and a box of NyQuil. There appears to be some correlation between Derek's willingness to play Florence Nightengale and how directly responsible Stiles is for whatever made him sick in the first place, but Stiles ignores that on the grounds that it's not a controlled experiment.

Also on the grounds that he might have to admit that Derek is right about things like running for three days straight on nothing but caffeine and Twizzlers being bad for his health.

Derek, though, earns about six billion points in the 'awesome partner' department by being absolutely fucking _prescient_ about what will make Stiles feel better when his stomach revolts. Derek sits on the edge of the bathtub and rubs his back gently when he wants that, and just stands back and passes him wet towels when he wants that, and waits silently by the door with a glass of cold ginger ale and a sleeve of plain crackers when he wants _that_. And best of all, Stiles never has to actually ask. It's _awesome_.

Except for the part where he's puking his guts up five to eight times a day.

Lydia brings home a copy of '_What to Expect When He's Expecting_' and blithely assures Stiles that the fact that he's having such intense sickness now probably means it'll taper off sometime around his second trimester. He meets his dad for lunch later that week and mentions that little factoid in a hopeful tone. His father just shakes his head and tells him a horror story about Stiles' mother being sick at least three times a day right up until she went into labor.

Stiles may or may not spend the drive back to the house holding a frantic conversation with his unborn child in which he tries to negotiate a cessation of hostilities against his digestive system by offering up free rein over his spleen and his bladder. He'll gladly take having to pee twenty times a night over praying to the porcelain god every hour on the hour. In the driver's seat, his father laughs so hard that tears are pouring down his face for most of the trip. Traitor.

Everything, though, absolutely everything—the pack going mental, the freaking _interrogations_ that happen whenever Stiles opens the refrigerator door, the hassle of switching over to correspondence courses, the near-constant puking—is totally, one hundred percent worth it the first time Dr. Evers tilts the LCD screen so he and Derek can see it better, and points to a small area in the upper right hand corner.

"Ah, there we go! That, gentlemen, is your baby," he says brightly, sliding the ultrasound device through the rapidly cooling gel coating Stiles' bare abdomen. It's sticky, and the pressure of the wand is just a touch uncomfortable when Dr. Evers presses down. Stiles ignores that, though, his breath catching in his throat as he just stares at the screen. "Pinpointing a due date is a bit harder with men, of course, but I'd say you're about six to seven weeks along—" Dr. Evers keeps talking, and Stiles knows he should listen…but all he can do is look at his _baby_. Beside him, he hears Derek's sharp inhalation, feels Derek's hand tightening on his shoulder.

It's not—well, it's not very baby-like at the moment. It really does kind of look like a tadpole sitting in the middle of a grey bubble on the screen. But Stiles swallows hard because he can see it _moving_, can see the tiny, pulsating flicker that he knows from his reading is—

"A heartbeat," Derek whispers softly. "That's the heartbeat." Stiles manages to tear his eyes away from the screen long enough to glance up at Derek as he laughs a little, low in his throat. It's a joyful, awestruck sound—pure, wondering happiness, and Stiles realizes he's never heard Derek make a sound like that. There's something startled about it, something that puts Stiles in mind of rusty machinery trying to chug to life. It's wonderful to hear, though, for all its tarnished edges, and Stiles can't help his own answering laugh.

"Everything looks really wonderful, boys," Dr. Evers says, drawing their attention back to him. He's smiling softly at them, as though he somehow realizes that this moment is more for them than other parents he's seen share it. Stiles reaches up and brushes his thumb over the screen, over the image of his tadpole-baby's heart beating away, and when Dr. Evers turns around to print them out screen captures, Derek leans in and brushes his lips over Stiles' temple, tender and loving in a way he usually isn't when they're around people outside of their pack.

Stiles spends the drive back to Beacon Hills flipping through the small stack of pictures over and over and over. They're scheduled to go back to Dr. Evers in another two weeks, and Evers had been confident that they would be able to hear the heartbeat by then. Stiles is privately sure Derek and the others will be able to pick it out before then. The thought gives him a momentary pang before he remembers that he'll be feeling the baby kick long before even werewolf senses can detect the movement. So there, it evens out.

Derek's hand rests warm and heavy on the back of his neck as they drive, and every time Stiles glances over at him, he's got a small smile playing about his lips. It's a good look on him. Stiles knows that having him and the rest of the pack has gone a long way towards healing the gaping wounds that losing his family had left Derek with. He's not so naïve as to assume that those wounds will ever close—he knows better than most that losing someone you love before their time is a hurt that never heals over completely.

Derek looks happier than Stiles can ever remember seeing him, though, content in a way that he's never been before. He reaches up silently and draws Derek's hand off his neck, twining their fingers together and bringing them down to rest in his lap. No, losing people you love isn't pain that ever completely goes away…but Stiles thinks maybe Derek is finally healed as much as he possibly can.

He's expecting to be bowled over pretty much the instant they enter the house, their pack falling over each other to be first to see the ultrasound pictures. He's expecting someone (probably Scott or Jackson) to make a stupid joke about were-tadpoles (and Stiles is totally going to do it if they fail to). He's expecting…

Pretty much anything but to find the entire pack huddled around the coffee table in the living room, heads all bent over the copy of 'What to Expect…', various expressions of horror and discomfort on their faces.

Stiles sighs softly, leaning back against Derek as he wraps his arm around his waist. "You guys read the chapter on how men accomplish natural childbirth, didn't you?" he asks.

In one eerie, synchronous movement, every head turns slowly to look at him. He feels Derek's chest shake suspiciously against his back, as a bitten off sound that might have been a chuckle erupts from the man's throat. Scott looks traumatized, and Lydia's eyes are as wide as saucers.

"You…it…they're…_membranes_! That _tear_!" Scott whimpers—honest to God whimpers. Jackson's mouth twists like he's going to be ill, and Erica is staring at Stiles' lower body in horrified fascination.

He tilts his head slightly, smirking evilly at his pack, though he can feel the tips of his ears starting to go red from embarrassment. "Hey, if you wanna know, I'll be happy to answer…but ask yourselves this: how much do you _really_ want to know about how my junk works?"

Scott howls, clapping his hands over his ears. "Oh my _God_, I can't know this! You're my best friend!"

"Nothing!" Isaac shouts at the same time. "I don't want to know _anything_!"

Erica shakes her head rapidly, abruptly leaping to her feet and bolting up the stairs. Boyd follows her seconds later, as Isaac and Scott race for the kitchen. Jackson is on their heels and a few seconds later, they hear the kitchen door slam. Stiles turns back to Lydia, raising a challenging eyebrow. She presses her lips together, glancing between him and the book on the coffee table.

"Just…you are having a C-Section, right?" she asks finally, the words coming out all in one rush.

"Oh my God, of _course_ I'm having a C-Section…did you _see_ those diagrams?" There is another choked little sound from behind him, and Stiles elbows Derek in the stomach without looking.

Lydia nods in satisfaction, and then rises gracefully from her seat. She walks over to them and holds out her hand imperiously. Stiles can't help but grin as he pulls the envelope with the ultrasound pictures out from behind his back. Lydia squeals a little as she snatches the envelope out of his hands, darting in to press a kiss to his cheek, and then Derek's before Derek realizes what she's doing. She whips around and runs for the stairs, calling for Erica as she goes. Stiles can only shake his head, leaning more of his weight against Derek as the man wraps his other arm around him, resting his hands on Stiles' stomach.

"Your father and Allison are the only ones who get to babysit until he or she's in kindergarten," Derek mutters fervently.


	9. Chapter 9

_May_

The morning sickness (and Stiles privately hopes whoever dubbed it 'morning' sickness, and thus gave countless unsuspecting people the mistaken impression that it only happened in the morning, died a horrible, horrible death) does not abate. It gets to the point that Stiles is kind of afraid to stray more than a few feet from the nearest bathroom door, and if he goes out, he absolutely refuses to eat anything. Not that _that_ seems to help. Eating, not eating, spicy foods, bland foods, eating nothing but fruit and vegetables, eating nothing but bread and pasta, eating nothing but Saltines, avoiding Saltines like the plague…nothing works. Stiles starts losing weight at a rate that has Dr. Evers pursing his lips, even as he assures Derek that it's nothing to be concerned about.

Judging by Derek's expression, he hears the unspoken 'yet' just as clearly as Stiles does.

On top of the near-constant puking, he feels exhausted all the time. Some evenings, he can barely keep his eyes open past eight, even if he's already taken a nap that afternoon. The pack starts exchanging worried looks when they think he's not watching, and the tight, pinched look that takes up permanent residence around Derek's eyes and in the corners of his mouth speak volumes to Stiles. There's nothing to be done but suffer through it, though. Dr. Evers promises that Tadpole (Scott did, indeed, come through with the were-tadpole jokes once he saw the ultrasound pictures, and the name has stuck. Derek swears he's never going to forgive Scott…Stiles thinks it's hilarious and adorable. That might be the hormones talking, though.) is doing fine and growing right on schedule, and that's all that Stiles cares about.

He's stretched out on the living room couch one day, half-heartedly watching a _Storage Wars_ re-run and sipping on a bottle of Gatorade when Isaac comes barreling through the front door. Erica pokes her head out of the kitchen, where she and Boyd are searching—probably futilely—for something that Stiles will manage to keep down for lunch, and hisses at him to be quiet. Stiles just waves his Gatorade in the air, indicating he's not asleep, and then sits up as Isaac hurries into the living room. He's clutching a paper sack in his hand, and Stiles raises an eyebrow as Isaac holds it out to him with a shy little smile.

"What's this?" he asks, peering down into the bag. The strong, spicy aroma of ginger wafts up from the bag's contents, a pile of what looks like pale pink, old-fashioned rock candy. He turns the sack in his hands curiously, seeing the logo of a specialty candy shop from a few towns up the highway. Stiles vaguely remembers seeing commercials for it from time to time.

"Ginger drops," Isaac says. He licks his lips in a hesitant, nervous gesture, before his head drops a bit. "My, uh, my mom used to buy them when we went on car trips…I'd get carsick, you know?" he continues, his voice dropping. Stiles looks up to find an expression that is half-sad, half-fond chasing itself across Isaac's features. Abruptly, he shakes his head, reaching up to rub the back of his neck with one hand. "They really made me feel better, and I just thought…" he trails off. "Never mind, it's stupid…I just thought-"

"Hey, no," Stiles interrupts gently. "No. You drove all the way up to Boxer Falls to get these?"

"_Laney's_ is where my mom always got them. I think they're the best," Isaac says, still looking hesitant and unsure. Stiles looks down at the bag again, shaking it a little before pulling out a piece of the candy.

"Can't hurt, right?" he says with a small grin, popping the candy into his mouth. The flavor bursts pleasantly on his tongue, spicy and warm, but not overwhelmingly so. He leans back against the couch, sucking on the chunk of ginger candy while Erica and Boyd finally pull a chicken and rice casserole out of the freezer and throw it in the oven for lunch.

He's not really expecting the candy to help. The ginger ale Lydia kept pouring down his throat didn't do anything except make him thirsty. He's pretty much resigned himself to just not being able to eat more than a few bites at a time throughout his whole pregnancy. Stupid, mutant strains of morning sickness-that-doesn't-only-happen-in-the-morning. He flips the TV to _Mythbusters_ and distracts himself watching increasingly awesome explosions. It's a really interesting episode, and he just nods a distracted thank-you when Erica shoves a small bowl into his hands.

"No way that's going to work," Erica scoffs as she plops down on the couch next to him with her own plate. Isaac and Boyd opt to take theirs out onto the back deck.

"Did you see how much dynamite they packed into that trunk?" he counters, taking a cautious bite of the casserole. Erica lets out a low whistle as a dilapidated car explodes on the TV, and Stiles laughs in delight. "Oh please tell me they're using C-4 next, please tell me they're using C-4 next," he starts chanting, shoveling more casserole quickly into his mouth so that he has a hand free to high-five Erica when Adam does, indeed, break out the C-4 for the next part of the experiment.

He gets up during a commercial break to go grab seconds from the pan in the kitchen, the first bowl having vanished. He's ravenous, he realizes as he scoops casserole into his bowl, and opens the refrigerator to start rifling through the little plastic baggies of sliced vegetables that take up an entire shelf, thanks to Lydia. He makes a mental note to tease Jackson mercilessly about his knife skills as he pulls a plate down out of the cabinets to pile carrot and celery sticks on. He squirts a healthy dollop of ranch dressing onto the plate, and then balances the bowl of casserole on top.

He hurries back to the couch just as the commercials end, and it takes him a full ten minutes to realize that Erica's commentary has halted. When he looks over at her, she's just staring at him open-mouthed.

"What?" he asks, rubbing a hand self-consciously over his mouth, searching for stray drops of salad dressing.

Instead of answering, Erica's eyes dart down to the plate balanced on his lap—the one that he's been steadily demolishing for the past ten minutes. Most of the vegetables are gone, and he's down to the last few spoonfuls of casserole. His second helping of casserole, he realizes with a start.

He hasn't been able to get through _firsts_ of pretty much anything for the last four weeks.

He freezes, and waits for his body to realize he's just shoved more food down his throat in one sitting than he's been eating in an entire day for the past few weeks. To his shock, though, his stomach remains quiet. The low-level nausea that has been his companion since last month is gone. He's actually—oh praise Jesus, Allah, Buddah, Odin, and anyone else who's listening—he's actually still a little hungry.

He sucks on another piece of the candy after lunch, and he still hasn't felt sick a few hours later when Isaac and Boyd come back through the kitchen door, flushed and sweaty from a run through the woods. He throws his arms around Isaac's middle, ignoring the sweat-soaked shirt pressing against his cheek. "You are _magic_," he breathes, laughing out loud at Isaac's startled squawk. "I mean, I guess maybe the candy is magic…but you brought it to me, so you're magic by default." Isaac starts grinning, and lets out a pleased little chuff as Stiles whirls around to hug Boyd, just because he doesn't feel sick and he _can_. "Oh my God, I want spaghetti for dinner! I actually want _dinner_!" he crows, dancing back, the simple lack of nausea making him feel more energetic than he has in weeks.

Derek works a full nine-to-five shift at the garage four days a week, so that he can have Fridays and weekends off. Usually, Stiles can expect him back any time between a quarter of six and six o' clock, but since he found out Stiles is pregnant, he's been back by five-thirty every time. Stiles doesn't like to think about how many traffic laws Derek is breaking to shave that extra fifteen minutes off the drive. At least Stiles' dad is willing to look the other way, as long as Derek isn't leaving bloodied pedestrians and ten car pile-ups in his wake.

Stiles is stirring a pot of spaghetti sauce on the stove while Erica hangs over his shoulder, sniffing appreciatively (apparently, the entire pack has missed Stiles' cooking something fierce while he's been dividing his time between sleeping and emptying his stomach), when Derek barges through the kitchen door.

"Why does the whole house smell like garlic? Are you _trying_ to make him sick?" he demands, leveling a glare at Boyd and Isaac that could probably set something on fire. It only takes a second, though, for him to realize that a: Isaac and Boyd are sitting at the island, and therefore can't be the ones cooking, and b: Stiles is the only one who knows how to make spaghetti sauce that doesn't come out of a jar, anyway.

"Hi honey, how was work?" Stiles asks playfully, finally giving in to Erica's not-so-subtle hints and holding up a spoon of sauce for her to taste. She slurps it happily, giving him an enthusiastic thumbs-up before stepping out of the way to let Derek take her place. He grins at the expression on Derek's face—confusion warring with something that looks like hopeful relief—and reaches up to wrap his arms around Derek's neck.

"Isaac brought me magic candy!" he says brightly, and then immediately has to let himself sag against Derek, forcing the man to take most of his weight as he tries to whirl around to growl at Isaac. "Not real magic!" he clarifies hurriedly. "Oh my God, seriously, how is this our life?! No, don't worry, Isaac's not making deals with fairies or anything, yeesh. It's just regular, old, boring candy…that is absolutely the most amazing stuff ever. I haven't thrown up all day! Isn't that awesome?" He cranes his neck to peck Derek on the lips before letting go to turn back to his spaghetti sauce.

"You're…actually feeling better?" Derek asks slowly, and Stiles' smile turns soft and warm at the note of worried hope in it.

"I feel great. Look, I'm making dinner! I chopped onions, and I made garlic bread, and I haven't tossed my cookies once. I mean, knock on wood and all, but seriously. I love Isaac so much right now, you don't even know." He whips around to throw a wink at Isaac, who just grins at him shyly.

Derek lets out a soft, pleased little hum, some of the lines around his eyes easing and Stiles can practically feel the other three werewolves in the kitchen relax, tension flowing out of them. Derek scrubs a hand over his face, smearing a little bit of oil that's clinging to his forehead, before heading back for the kitchen door, presumably to go upstairs for a shower before dinner. Stiles keeps stirring the sauce with one hand, turning and reaching towards the spice rack for some more oregano, and so he catches it when Derek stops beside Isaac's stool. Derek leans down to whisper something in Isaac's ear that Stiles can't hear, but he can guess from the bright, contented smile that curves Isaac's lips at the words. Derek's hand slides up the back of Isaac's neck, pulling him close against Derek's side for an instant before Derek steps away and through the kitchen door.

Stiles bites his lip a little as he turns his attention back to the stove, warmth spreading through him at the tangible evidence of just how far they've all come, how well Derek has settled into his role as the head of this strange little family. He can't help imagining how it's going to be in just a short time, can't help picturing a beautiful little girl scampering around Derek's legs, or a bright-eyed little boy reaching up to take Derek's hand.

He doesn't stop smiling all through dinner.


	10. Chapter 10

_June_

He graduates college the first week of June. He is officially the proud owner of a shiny Bachelor's degree in English with a concentration in creative writing. He's made a few vague noises about segueing into teaching (the community college Boyd has been attending is always looking for adjuncts), but he's really, seriously trying to pursue a career in writing.

Lord knows, his life has been an extended episode of Buffy: the Vampire Slayer for close to ten years, now. He's got stories to tell. The whole 'paranormal literature' fever isn't as hot as it was when he was in high school…but there's still an audience. He's still working out how to change things to protect the innocent (and not-so-innocent, 'cause hell if he's going to bring a bunch of angry hunters down on his pack by spilling secrets), but he's got some pretty good stuff on his laptop.

That's not important right now, though.

What _is_ important is that he's walking across the stage to receive his degree, with his whole family—so much more than he'd ever dreamed he'd have—looking on. Erica, Isaac, and Boyd whistle and clap obnoxiously when his name is called, and then are promptly drowned out by Scott, Allison, and Lydia whooping like he's just performed a miracle. Jackson rolls his eyes theatrically and very pointedly doesn't cheer, but he shoots Stiles a thumbs-up when their eyes meet and there's a real smile curving his mouth. Melissa McCall is openly crying, and the proud, happy grin on her face dulls the pain of it not being _his_ mother who's watching this moment…just a little.

His dad and Derek, though…his heart actually stutters in his chest at the expressions on their faces. His dad is a picture of fierce, fierce pride as he claps so hard it must be hurting his hands. Derek has been drafted into recording, and is dutifully holding Stiles' digital camera up and capturing the event. When he realizes Stiles is looking at him, he takes his eyes off the screen for a moment, tilting his head slightly. He's just as proud as Stiles' dad is, as the rest of the pack is, just as happy for Stiles, but there's something more in the smile he shoots Stiles (the one that Stiles knows only he ever earns). Something content and calm; peaceful. It hits Stiles, suddenly, how much this means to Derek. How much it must mean for him to be able to share something as _normal_ as this with the pack.

Stiles kind of loves that he gets to give Derek that, that they all get to give Derek moments like this.

They go out to dinner afterwards—nothing fancy, just a pizza place that offers an all-you-can-eat buffet. They shove three tables together, order a half dozen pitchers of soda and beer (Lydia and Scott magnanimously allow Stiles to have one glass of Cherry Coke and he fucking savors it like fine wine), and then put the all-you-can-eat thing to the test. The restaurant echoes with their laughter, and the staff offers them a round of drinks on the house when they find out what is being celebrated.

The staff is a little less friendly when the Lunar-Inclined contingent of their group proceeds to _demolish_ the buffet…but Jackson and Lydia promise to leave a tip that will more than soothe any ruffled feathers.

Tadpole has finally started playing nice with Stiles' digestive system, and he only needs Isaac's magic candy (and yes, he may or may not mentally snicker every time he calls it that…there's always going to be a little bit of twelve-year-old boy in his humor) every once in a while. Tadpole is also _very_ much his and Derek's child. All through dinner, Stiles zeroes in on the Meat Lovers Trio like a heat-seeking missile. He polishes off nearly half a pie all on his own, and still has room for the two slices of Veggie Supreme that he has to eat to appease Lydia (and Derek, but Derek's a little more subtle about his tyranny over what Stiles eats).

Even though Tadpole is no longer causing him to toss his cookies every twenty minutes, though, Stiles still finds it hard to maintain an actual _grownup_ bedtime. Stuffed full of food and riding high on a sense of accomplishment, he finds himself listing as the party goes on. His head automatically finds its way to Derek's shoulder, and he grins a little at the way Derek just shifts his chair closer without even interrupting the conversation he's having with Stiles' father, slotting their bodies together so Stiles can lean against his side. Stiles just lets the sounds of his family wash over him, smiling contentedly.

* * *

"Nick," Stiles says, thumbing idly through a thick book of baby names that someone had left conspicuously on the coffee table that morning. He has to give the pack credit for holding out this long…he knows they're dying to find out what he and Derek are planning on naming Tadpole for real. He's actually pretty sure there's a betting pool going on in some capacity. Hell if he's going to put them out of their misery, just yet, though. Call it revenge for trying to keep the fact that he was pregnant from him.

Stiles isn't above a little vindictiveness, thank you very much.

"No," Derek says immediately, and Stiles gives in with an easy shrug. He wrinkles his nose at some of the names he's currently looking at, wondering who would ever hate their baby so much that they'd give it a name like 'Aloicious'.

"Reed?" he offers, and smirks a little when Derek's chest rumbles against his back with a warning little growl. They're sprawled out on the couch in the living room, Derek reclining against the arm of the couch while Stiles tucks himself into the vee of Derek's legs and leans back against his chest. Derek's chin is propped on his shoulder, one arm wound around his waist as Derek softly strokes his fingers over and over against Stiles' stomach.

There's a just-barely-visible bump now…a slight swell that anyone who didn't know he was expecting would probably just write off as a little extra padding around the middle. They all know what it means, though, and Stiles has quickly gotten used to hands gently stroking his belly, and heads tucked close against his lap when everyone is gathered in the living room for movies or pack meetings. Erica and Isaac, in particular, like to huddle close to him, their heads resting on his legs and their ears pressed tightly against his stomach, listening to Tadpole's heartbeat.

"No," Derek says again, the inflection of his voice not changing in the slightest. Stiles huffs a little.

"How about Clint?" he says.

"How about you're not naming our kid after a character out of Marvel?" Derek mutters, nipping at the side of Stiles' neck. It's an empty reprimand, though, and Stiles just sighs.

"Okay, then…and Tadpole, I want it on record that your _dad_ is the one who nixed you being named after Nick Fury if you're a boy."

They had already decided Tadpole would be named for Derek's sister and Stiles' mother, if Tadpole turned out to be a girl. They hadn't even had to discuss it.

"Do you have any _serious_ suggestions?" Derek asks after a moment, and Stiles can't hold back a wicked little smirk as he leans back, tilting his head so that he's looking at Derek upside-down.

"Clark?" he asks, already laughing as Derek growls and boosts himself over the back of the couch, letting Stiles flop back against the arm (though of course, Derek keeps a supporting arm around his shoulders until he's sure Stiles has his own balance). "So that's a no on DC, too?"

"That's a no on DC, too," Derek says solemnly, but Stiles has had years to learn how to read the minute twitches in Derek's expression. He's just as amused as Stiles is. "You want anything to drink?" he calls over his shoulder as he heads for the kitchen.

"Grape juice if we have any left." Stiles flips to a new section in the baby name book, the smirk still firmly in place as his own hand drifts down to rub at the tiny little swell of his stomach.

He isn't going to fight Derek too hard on taking DC and Marvel out of the running as far as source material for their 'boy name.'

After all, asking for something outrageous and then negotiating down to what you _really_ wanted is a tried and true bargaining tactic. And Stiles can come up with plenty of outrageous before he actually gets to what he wants.

Derek doesn't know it yet, but if Tadpole turns out to be a boy, he is _so_ getting a name out of the Whedonverse.


	11. Chapter 11

_July_

Stiles hums softly to himself as he slathers a healthy dollop of peanut butter across the surface of a nice, fluffy pancake. He follows that with two slices of turkey bacon and, still humming tunelessly under his breath, grabs the glass bottle sitting on the counter in front of him and lets the thick, dark liquid dribble out onto the peanut butter. He smacks his lips a little as he rolls the whole thing up into a delicious breakfast package and takes a huge bite, ignoring the soft gagging sounds coming from the two people seated at the island.

"Stiles…you know that was A1 sauce and not pancake syrup, right?" Allison asks delicately, from her perch on the counter by the coffee pot. At the island, Lydia shakes her head, pressing her face against Jackson's shoulder.

"Oh, he knows," she mutters, "he knows."

"Shut up all of you, it's _delicious_," Stiles says, and takes another large bite just to prove it. Scott, leaning against the counter Allison is sitting on and holding her so close there's not even a sliver of light between their bodies, snorts in amusement.

"Okay, seriously, how are you not bothered by this? He was dipping grapes in the hummus last night," Jackson demands, craning his neck to look at Scott over his shoulder. Scott just shrugs a little.

"I've known him since diapers, man…this is not the grossest stuff I've ever seen Stiles eat," he says easily, and goes back to carding his hand through Allison's hair.

"I still maintain that the world just wasn't ready for how amazing M&M Mac n' Cheese is," Stiles says, sniffing with false affront. He goes back to happily munching on his breakfast (technically his second breakfast, because he's found that breaking breakfast, lunch, and dinner into about seven smaller meals throughout the day keeps the worst of the heartburn at bay. Hobbits, man, they're _visionaries_.) and just enjoying having his entire pack close and together for the day.

Allison is home visiting for two weeks before she goes back to school for a final two summer classes. After that, she has one more fall semester of student teaching, and she'll graduate with a freshly minted elementary teaching license. Stiles kind of pities all the little boys (and girls, who knows) who are going to walk into Allison's classroom and immediately fall in love. On the other hand, it's going to be hilarious to watch her deal with all the puppy love crushes she'll inevitably be the object of. Scott had been nearly impossible to be around in the week leading up to Allison's arrival back in Beacon Hills…one would think that they hadn't seen each other in years, instead of having been visiting every other week. She's here now, though, and it makes Stiles' heart hurt a little bit to see how much happier and more content Scott is being able to see her every day. Allison too, for that matter.

He's jolted out of his thoughts when Allison claps her hands like a little kid, a sunny smile lighting her face. "So, Stiles, have you two decided how you want to decorate the nursery?" she asks, and Stiles shares a commiserating eyeroll with Scott and Jackson as Lydia immediately sits up with a light in her eyes that Stiles had learned to fear when he was in fourth grade.

Allison had begged for them to wait until her summer break to decorate the room across the hall from his and Derek's bedroom for Tadpole. Lydia and Erica had wanted to start on it pretty much the instant Stiles and Derek had brought home the first ultrasound pictures…but not even Lydia could resist a pleading Allison. It would have been like saying 'no' to a Disney Princess.

Honestly, since Lydia had preemptively nixed anything Star Wars, Star Trek, or Star-Anything related, Stiles wasn't really too bothered about the nursery décor…he knew his girls would make it beautiful. Besides, he doubted very much he'd give a rat's ass what overexposed characters were dancing across Tadpole's walls when he was changing a dirty diaper or stumbling out of bed for two am feedings. Lydia, Allison, and Erica were excited, though (and Isaac and Boyd had been a little suspicious in their enthusiasm when they had volunteered to paint), and Stiles was perfectly happy to let them knock themselves out.

"I dunno…Lydia emailed you those sample pictures, right? I liked the teddy bear one, but Derek really wants the 'under the sea' thing. He doesn't want anyone to know he thought the seahorses were adorable, though, so pretend to take him seriously when he throws up his hands and threatens to paint the whole thing black, okay?"

Jackson snorts into his coffee, and Stiles can practically _see_ Lydia filing the information away to tease her Alpha with later.

"Oh, I thought you'd go for the circus theme for sure," Allison says, sounding a little disappointed, and Stiles can't help it when his eyes dart to Scott.

They try to resist, they really do…but they can't help it. Lydia groans and lets her head thump down on the island as—

"Da da da-da-da-da-da da da **circus**! Da da da-da-da-da-da da da **afro**! Circus! Afro! Circus! Afro! Polka-dot, polka-dot, polka-dot, afro!" he and Scott sing together, at the top of their lungs. Allison's eyes go wide as she looks between Stiles and her boyfriend in horrified fascination. Lydia thumps her head on the island a few times before looking up and glaring at Stiles.

"And that is why there will be no circus theme in the nursery," she says acerbically. "You do realize that movie came out almost a decade ago, right?"

"You do realize that moment will never not be awesome, right?" Stiles shoots back, finishing the last bits of his pancake sandwich and taking his plate over to the kitchen sink.

"I can't believe you two, sometimes," Allison mutters, sliding her arm around Scott's shoulders nonetheless and resting her head against his.

"Too late now!" Stiles sing-songs. "You're stuck with us foreverrrrrrrrr!"

He realizes his mistake a heartbeat after the words leave his mouth. He winces, turning just in time to see a shadow flit across Allison's face. She schools her features almost immediately…but Scott has never mastered that particular trick. His best friend swallows hard, glancing at Allison with such longing that Stiles wants to avert his eyes for a moment. He rallies quickly, though, a strained smile stretching across his face.

"Six more months," he says, trying to inject a note of brightness into his voice. Even to Stiles' human ears, though, it rings false. Allison sighs as her arm tightens around his shoulders.

Neither Scott nor Allison have really talked about it to the rest of the pack…but Stiles is Scott's best friend. He knows that Allison's parents have now started making noise about not wanting Allison and Scott to get engaged or move in together until Allison finds a teaching job and Scott gets his veterinary license. Oh, they're wrapping it in perfectly logical arguments—but Scott and Allison both know they're really just hoping that Allison will wake up one day and decide that oops! She really doesn't want to spend her life with a werewolf.

And it's not like it's going to work. Allison and Scott are just as forever as he and Derek are…and Allison is _not_ a teenager anymore. Scott and Allison don't need the Argents' permission to do anything.

They just really, really don't want Allison to have to choose between her family and Scott.

_None_ of the pack want her to have to choose between her family and Scott.

More and more, though, it's looking like her parents are going to force it to that point. She and Scott are ready to be together—ready to move in together, ready to get married, ready for Allison to _officially_ be accepted in the pack as Scott's mate (however much it would only be a formality). And Stiles has caught her watching him a few times with a slightly wistful expression that suggests to him that she and Scott are ready for more.

He presses his lips together, forces a smile that looks much more genuine than his two friends', and gives a discreet nod of acknowledgement to Lydia's pointed look. "All right…I think Derek and the others have enough of a head start. Time to go fetch!" he says brightly. Derek, Erica, Isaac, and Boyd had left nearly half an hour ago, scattering out around Derek's property. Scott, Lydia, and Jackson are supposed to try and track them before they can make it back to the house.

Derek claims it's a time-honored traditional exercise to help werewolves (and werelizards) hone their senses. Stiles privately thinks he just likes the excuse to play a giant game of hide and seek with his pack.

"Allison, you wanna run into town and help me get everything for dinner tonight?" he continues, and immediately waves the other three off when they freeze in the act of heading out the door. "Guys, seriously? We're going to the _grocery store_! Besides, Allison has three weapons on her, and those are just the ones I can see!" He turns to Allison with mock-solemnity. "Allison, if we get jumped in the cereal aisle, do you promise to let me hide behind you while you kick ass?"

His words have the desired effect, and she giggles sweetly. "Only if you promise to make brownies for dessert tonight," she answers, her voice just as mockingly serious.

"Shit, Stiles is making brownies? Let them go! Let them go!" Jackson starts pushing Scott and Lydia out the door onto the back deck, leaving Stiles and Allison to just grin and shake their heads.

"I feel like I could have avoided so many problems in high school if I'd known what a choc-a-holic he is," Stiles mutters, escorting Allison to the front door and snagging the keys to his jeep off the hook board hanging beside it.

* * *

They decide to each drive their own car into town. It'll probably make Derek grumble (and Stiles knows better than to hope that he just won't figure out that they drove separately), but even the jeep's cargo space isn't going to be big enough to fit enough groceries to feed the entire pack for an extended period of time. They're going to need Allison's RAV4 just to haul all the meat home.

He's more than a little amused by the looks they get, each of them pushing a shopping cart that's full to bursting, and the eyes of the kid behind the butcher counter get so wide when Stiles rattles off his order that Stiles is somewhat surprised that they don't fall out of his head. Allison is laughing as they shop, though, chattering about her classes and some of the stranger kids she's worked with in her various placements and observations. By the time they check out (and dear God, Stiles is glad Lydia made Jackson insist on letting them use his credit card to pay for food while everyone is staying at his and Derek's place…because _damn_.) the shadows have vanished from Allison's eyes entirely.

So he doesn't say anything when he spots Chris Argent walking into the hardware store just a few buildings up from the grocery while he and Allison are wrestling the various bags into their cars. Allison is preoccupied with trying to collapse her back seat to make the trunk bigger, and Stiles is almost positive she doesn't see her father.

He worries his lip, eyes darting back and forth between Allison and the hardware store. It's technically none of his business…and he knows neither Scott nor Allison would want him to get involved. He's tired, and he really, really wants to just go home and watch his pack unload all the groceries while he sits on the couch and rests his aching back.

But he can't stop thinking about their faces this morning. He can't stop remembering the expression in Scott's eyes last month when he'd dragged Stiles into the jewelry store and finally put his money down for a simple white gold band set with a small, but beautiful, diamond.

"_She's going to pick me, Stiles,_" he'd said, turning the black velvet box over and over in his hands as they drove back to the house. "_If it comes to that, I know she's going to pick me…but it's going to hurt her so much._"

It wasn't his business.

Except Allison was his friend, and Allison was pack. Scott was pack. Scott was his brother in all the ways that counted, and Stiles never has been very good at just standing by while something was hurting the people he loved.

"Hey, my dad's shift is almost over…I'm gonna swing by the station and see if he wants to come out for dinner tonight, okay?" he says as he slams the jeep's trunk shut. Allison arches an eyebrow at him.

"You sure? I thought Derek and the others were being kinda weird about you being by yourself right now," she says hesitantly. Stiles smiles at her winningly.

"Oh, they're being unbelievably _psycho_ about me being by myself right now…but I'll only technically be by myself for, like, five minutes and then I'll be surrounded by armed police officers who have either known me since I was in diapers or directly answer to someone who's known me since I was in diapers. And all of them answer directly to my _father_. What could happ-you know what? No, I'm not even putting that out into the universe. But you know what I was gonna say."

Allison laughs again, shaking her head. "You know they're only doing it because they love you. You _and_ Tadpole," she says gently. Stiles grins ruefully.

"I know. Believe me, I know, and that's why I'm not arguing with them about it. But it's just—"

"A little claustrophobic?" Allison asks playfully, and then leans in to peck him on the cheek before he can answer. "Go ahead. I'll stop by Lydia and Jackson's place and use my emergency key to raid their wine collection."

"You're the best!" he says, and he really means it. He climbs into his jeep, and waits until Allison has left the grocery store parking lot before climbing back out and locking the doors. He turns toward the hardware store and inwardly steels himself before setting off at as brisk a pace as he can manage.

"Okay, kiddo…this is either going to work out totally awesome, or make things ten times worse and get Uncle Scott and Aunt Allison pissed at me. Unfortunately, Daddy's plans _usually_ turn out brilliant or horrible. Not a whole lot of middle ground."

He doesn't let himself think too hard about what he's about to try and do, or how angry Derek is going to be when Stiles comes home smelling of the Argents. He's not even sure what it is he's going to do…he just knows he can't leave this situation alone. He takes one moment to swallow hard as he pulls the door to the hardware store open, a little bell tinkling overhead as he does, and remind himself that Allison's father is pretty much the least crazy of Allison's relatives and also the least likely to try and do Stiles bodily harm in a public place.

He finds Chris Argent standing in the yardcare aisle, looking thoughtfully between two brands of weed killer. It's such a normal, mundane thing, and for some reason Stiles thinks he might start laughing at the picture. He must make some sound, because Argent glances up at him…and just like that, any mundane normalcy vanishes from his expression and his posture. The man's pale eyes turn wary, and Stiles can tell just from the fall of his jacket that he's carrying.

Great. Just great.

Argent looks him up and down, his eyes lingering for a bare moment on Stiles' abdomen. And at just over eighteen weeks, Stiles isn't huge or anything…but yeah, there's no mistaking that he is anything but pregnant. He lifts his chin a little as Argent's eyes track back up to his.

"Stiles, isn't it?" Argent says finally. "Allison mentioned your…news. Congratulations." Argent's tone is blandly polite, but he still manages to make the word sound just a little bit ugly. Stiles ignores it, letting the insult roll right off his back.

"Thanks," he says brusquely. "Look, I get that pretty much the only contact you want with us is a mutual pact of non-aggression, but I'd like to talk to you." He doesn't miss the way Argent tenses when he says 'us,' and he spares a brief moment to hope like hell that Allison has also _mentioned_ the fact that he's still human. Argent is already shaking his head, though, abandoning the weed killer to stride forward like he's going to brush right past Stiles.

"_We_ don't have anything we need to say to each other. If Hale has something he needs to discuss with me, he can damn well come to me himself."

Stiles' eyes narrow slightly, and his mouth is open almost before he can think about it. "No, see, that's where you're wrong. And for the record? Not a lackey, here…Derek doesn't work that way, and I think you know that by now."

Argent snorts and doesn't slow down.

Stiles thinks of the sadness in Allison's eyes and throws caution to the wind.

"I get it, okay? Hell, I thought Allison was too good for Scott in high school. Now? She's _still_ so far out of his league it's not even funny." Not in a bad way, of course. Just…watching Scott and Allison sometimes put Stiles in mind of those fairy tales where a lowly peasant tried to woo a princess. It was a ridiculous idea. Except for the fact that the peasant was _always_ the princess's true love.

Argent freezes when Stiles mentions Allison, and for a brief instant he thinks the man is about to punch him. Stiles has never been one to back down from a little intimidation, though, and he stands his ground like he always does; plunges on. "I get it…but you and your wife have to know that you're not gonna break them up. They've been together since they were sixteen! All you're doing is hurting her."

"You listen here, you little bastard," Argent begins, his voice a low, icy hiss. "What goes on between my family and McCall is none of your _damn_ business—"

"_Scott and Allison_ are my business," Stiles interrupts, stepping forward and drawing himself up to his full height. "The pack is my business. And whether you like it or not, your daughter is part of our pack. She loves Scott, and he sure as hell loves her. And they've been bending over _backwards_ for you and your wife because they don't want her to have to lose you to be with Scott! If you can't _see_ that..." he trails off, shaking his head in disgust.

Argent grits his teeth. "What, you think we should be happy she wants to spend the rest of her life with a bunch of monsters?" he spits, but his voice wavers just the tiniest little bit on the last word. Barely perceptible, but living with Derek has turned Stiles into an expert on picking out subtle little nuances in tone. What he hears in Argent's tone…it isn't hatred. It isn't revulsion. It isn't any of the hundred things Stiles expected to hear. It's concern. It's worry. It's fear, yes, but it's the fear of a parent for his child, the same kind of fear he heard in his own father's voice when he finally sat his dad down and read him in on what was _really_ going on in Beacon Hills. It was the desperate fear of a father worrying that his baby was getting into something they weren't going to be able to handle.

Despite himself, Stiles feels a stab of sympathy.

"Mr. Argent," he says quietly, "you know I'm with Derek, right? Like _with_-with. I mean Allison told you, or your freaky hunter spy network or something, right?"

"It's a little hard to miss _now_" Argent admits dryly, his eyes darting down again to the swell of Stiles' stomach. Which, point. The tense set of Argent's shoulders relaxes slightly, some of the hostility smoothing out of his expression. "What's your point?"

Stiles gets the feeling he better arrive at that point quickly, or the hostility is going to come back full force.

"So, you know what that means, right?"

"It means he's declared you his _mate_." Stiles tries not to be insulted at the way Argent spits the word out. "You're just as high up in the pack hierarchy as Hale is. Still waiting for a point." Argent sounds like he's reciting from a textbook (or a bestiary), bare facts and nothing else.

"My point is…you're wrong. It _means_ that I'm Derek's whole world. Well, me and Tadpole, here, now." Argent looks confused at the name, but Stiles just presses on, the words falling from his mouth in a steady, instinctive rush. "He loves us more than anything else in the whole world, and he'll die before he lets anything hurt us. It means Derek will never leave me, or purposely do anything to hurt me. He couldn't. And it means the pack is my _family_. I'll always have them, and they'll always take care of me; they'll always take care of my kid. Even if…even if something happens to Derek, we're never going to be alone. And I feel the exact same way about Derek. About the pack." He takes a deep breath, looking Argent directly in the eye. "And that's how Scott and Allison feel about each other. She's part of our family and no, we don't expect you to be happy about it…but we hope you can find a way to be happy your daughter found someone who loves her that much."

Argent is staring at him, a strange, unreadable light in his eyes. "And Hale's just fine with you staying human? He doesn't want you to be like _him_?" It's supposed to come off as flip and a little insulting, but Argent doesn't quite manage it.

"I've been keeping up with them just fine since high school. Maybe I'll want Derek to bite me, someday…but he'd _never_ do it unless I asked him to. I mean, yeah, he'd do it if I was bleeding out on the ground in front of him, or something, but we talked about that when I moved in. There is definitely an 'arterial spurt' clause in the No Bite Agreement. But barring mortal injury? Only if I want it. And, uh, only if _she_ wants it, which is what I'm guessing you were really asking in the first place."

"You know there's no chance your baby isn't a wolf...not even a chance they'll carry it as a recessive gene. Not an Alpha's child." Argent's voice has gone quiet, that odd light still in his eyes. Stiles just shrugs mildly at the out-of-left-field statement.

"True. And believe me, the thought of puberty with _fangs_ is quite possibly the scariest thing I've ever faced…but that's my life."

"And you're…happy with it?"

Stiles knows in an instant that it's not _his_ happiness Argent is asking about.

"I wouldn't trade it for anything," he says quietly, sincerely. "Not one single thing."

* * *

He does indeed go to the station after he leaves the hardware store, and calls Allison on his father's desk phone to tell her not to bother trying to stall any longer. She has all the perishables in her car, and Derek is going to be pissed, no matter what. Scott won't let him get too angry at Allison, though, and Stiles will make it up to him later tonight.

One thing he definitely has to admit…pregnancy hormones are an _awesome_ addition to the bedroom.

He hangs out for the last half hour of his dad's shift, letting all the women who work at the station coo and fuss over him. He passes Tadpole's latest ultrasound pictures around and confirms that yes, he and Derek are definitely finding out what they're having. Dr. Evers was going to try to see at Stiles' next appointment, but had warned them that it might take a few weeks, yet. His father has plans to go out with a few of his deputies that night, so Stiles heads back out to his jeep as soon as his dad's shift is over.

He's not entirely surprised to find Derek leaning against the hood of his vehicle when he exits the station.

Derek looks a little annoyed as Stiles approaches, but not truly upset. Then the wind shifts a bit, and Stiles can see it when Derek picks up the traces of Argent's scent still lingering on him after their encounter. Derek throws himself away from the jeep and darts toward him, barely remembering to restrain himself to human-like speed out in the parking lot with all its _security cameras_.

"Okay, before you flip out here, I just want you to know that I went looking for him and _nothing_ bad happened," Stiles says. "Also, you love me and I'm totally carrying your child right now. Just throwing that out there!"

"_Stiles_," Derek interrupts gruffly. "What did you do?"

"I just…talked to Allison's dad, okay? Nothing spectacular. We just stood in the garden aisle at the hardware store and talked. And I know, I shouldn't have gone alone, but c'mon! He wasn't going to do anything to me in the middle of the day."

Derek sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I swear, I'm going to get you a leash," he mutters.

"Getting the kinky stuff in before Tadpole's here?" Stiles says, before he can stop himself. "Sorry," he adds immediately.

"Just…just try not to—" Whatever Derek is going to say is interrupted when both their phones start going off at once. They share one wide-eyed look before immediately diving into their pockets for the devices. Derek gets his out first, of course, but Stiles is seconds behind him. Derek puts his phone to his ear as Stiles thumbs his screen, calling up the text message that Erica just sent.

"They _what_? Did he go?! Shit…all right, just stay there. Stiles and I will be back in twenty minutes."

Stiles looks up from the text message telling him that the Argents just called Scott and politely demanded his presence at their house. _Only_ Scott.

"Okay, I'm ninety percent sure that this is nothing to worry about," Stiles says, as Derek holds out his hand silently for the keys, glaring. "Maybe eighty-five. A solid seventy, at least," he babbles, handing the keys over without an argument and scrambling around to the passenger side.

They make it to the house in twenty minutes, and only the bone-deep knowledge that Derek would never actually do anything to endanger either him or Tadpole prevents Stiles' life from flashing before his eyes the whole drive. He's fairly certain he left finger marks in the dashboard at one point.

The whole pack is gathered in the living room, grouped loosely around Allison. She's sitting on the couch next to Lydia, trying (and failing) not to look worried. She doesn't look _scared_, though, and Stiles can see Derek relax minutely as that detail registers with him as well. So…Allison doesn't think Scott's in any danger from her parents.

She just thinks they're going to try and ruin her relationship with him, again.

He bites his lip a little, exchanging a silent look with Derek, shaking his head a little at the questioning tilt to one of Derek's eyebrows. He doesn't want to rehash his entire conversation with Argent until he has a better idea of what this is all about.

Allison is looking a little too brittle for his liking.

He slips over to the couch quietly, sitting down on Allison's other side and sliding an arm around her small waist. Immediately, she sinks against him a little, laying her head down on his shoulder. She doesn't say anything, though. Derek hovers by the door a moment longer, before huffing to himself and stalking over to the couch, sitting down next to Stiles. He opens his mouth to say something, but Stiles puts a quelling hand on his knee.

He can see it in the bleak look in Allison's eyes, feel it in the way she's holding herself so tightly, even though she's leaning against him. She's bracing herself, gathering the incredible strength that has always shone out of her like a torch to do something she _knows_ is going to hurt like hell. She's finally reached her breaking point, he realizes, reached the point where she finally feels that she _has_ to choose.

And Scott had been right, all those weeks ago. If it comes to it, Allison is going to choose him, and their life together, over her parents.

Stiles can only hope it doesn't come to that.

All told, they wait almost two hours. Lydia gets up at one point, and she, Isaac, and Erica head into the kitchen, murmuring that they'll make sandwiches for everyone. Allison barely moves the entire time, just reaches up to wrap her hand around the one Stiles is resting on her shoulder. She stares at the front door as though it holds the answers to the universe (and in a way, he supposes it does, for her), and when they finally, _finally_ hear tires crunching their way up the drive, she closes her eyes briefly and squeezes his fingers.

Scott opens the door quietly, and the pack is practically vibrating with their need to surge forward, to make sure he's really okay, to demand answers from him. They restrain themselves, though, as Allison rises silently from the couch, her hand slipping free of Stiles'. Scott is just staring at her, a dazed, stunned expression on his face. She takes a few steps forward, and Scott seems to shake himself.

"They…it's okay," he says, whispering as though he can hardly believe what he's saying. "It's all okay."

Then, he smiles.

He darts forward, seizing Allison around the waist and lifting her off the ground. "Marry me," he says breathlessly, and twirls her around and around. "Marry me, marry me, marry me," he chants, laughing and gasping all at once.

And then Allison _gets_ it, realizes that whatever her parents had said to Scott, the end result is that she doesn't have to choose between them. She throws her arms around Scott's neck, her own laughter joining Scott's. "Yes! Yes, yes, yes!" she cries, and kisses him soundly.

Stiles watches them, happiness and a sense of completion bubbling up inside of him. He hears Derek sigh softly beside him, and knows the pack is feeling it too, an actual sensation of a puzzle piece finally clicking into place. Scott finally sets Allison down, pulling her close against his side as he kisses her again, and again, and again until…

"Oh crap! The ring! I don't have the ring!" He pulls back from Allison, looking comically horrified. "Shit, I had this whole speech…and I'm supposed to be on one knee, aren't I?" He actually makes a move to kneel in front of Allison, before popping back up as he realizes he still doesn't have a ring. Allison is laughing helplessly, tears (that Stiles sincerely hopes are tears of joy) gathering in her eyes.

He sighs, and levers himself off the couch. "Well, we _were_ having a really nice moment, there. Scott, calm down before you start hyperventilating. Isaac, would you run up to his room and grab the ring box out of the nightstand? Scott, you have thirty seconds to remember your speech…and if we're doing a 'take two,' I'm gonna record it for the wedding video, okay?" Isaac scurries up the stairs after the ring, as the rest of the pack dive for various purses, pockets, and jackets and start whipping out phone cameras.

Stiles shakes his head as he heads for the closet they keep the digital video camera in. Derek, unsurprisingly, follows him, stopping him just before he opens the closet door and crowding him against it, instead.

"That must have been some talk you had with Argent," Derek says, and Stiles hears the note of admiration in his voice loud and clear. He grins a bit, sliding his hands up Derek's shoulders.

"Well, talking _is_ kind of what I do best," he says. Derek snorts in amusement, leaning down to rest his forehead against Stiles' for a moment.

"You did a good thing for them," Derek says quietly, kissing him lightly before pulling back. His lips curl up into a teasing smirk. "But I'm still getting you a leash."

"Getting the kinky stuff in before Tadpole gets here?" Erica calls from the living room. "Good idea!"

Stiles buries his face against Derek's shoulder and groans.


	12. Chapter 12

_August_

Tadpole, it turns out, is a stubborn little thing. Stiles doesn't care how many weird looks the others throw him when he ascribes nefarious motivations to a _fetus_…he's sure his baby is deliberately messing with them. At his twenty week appointment, Tadpole is perfectly, perfectly positioned for them to see what they're having. Allison and Lydia are so ready to start buying baby clothes it's not even funny, and Stiles…well, Stiles figures he's going to need all the time he can get to start mentally preparing himself for his daughter bringing home her first boyfriend or girlfriend. If, in fact, he's having a daughter. Tadpole's hands are lying _right_ where they're trying to look, though, and right as Dr. Evers is trying to adjust the angle, Tadpole turns, blocking the shot entirely. He and Derek laugh a little, ruefully, and resign themselves to waiting another two weeks.

At the twenty-two week appointment, Tadpole has contorted him or herself into a tiny ball, practically curled face-first around Stiles' _spine_. Dr. Evers tries to get a view, but Tadpole remains doggedly contrary.

Neither he nor Derek can say they're particularly surprised by that.

"I think our kid's mooning us," Stiles says.

"I think you're right," Derek agrees, a touch sullenly.

A few days later, they are lying on the couch together, the rest of the pack spread out over various pieces of furniture. There's a football game playing on the television, but everyone's attention is more focused on the truly epic pile of bridal magazines Allison, Lydia, and Erica are currently sifting through. Jackson, Boyd, Isaac, and Scott are watching in horrified fascination (and Stiles totally doesn't miss the significant glances Lydia is shooting Jackson every few minutes, nor the way Jackson keeps twitching when one of the women squeal over some bit of frippery). Stiles really has absolutely no interest in wedding planning beyond writing a kickass—and hilariously embarrassing—toast to give in his capacity as Scott's best man and Derek….

"That fabric's going to be too heavy for a spring ceremony, around here," Derek says off-handedly, glancing away from the television screen to the picture Allison is currently holding up for inspection. The dress does, indeed, look complicated and stifling for the late spring/early summer ceremony Scott and Allison (well, okay, Allison and Lydia) are envisioning…but that's not the important bit. Conversation grinds to a halt, and the only sound in the living room is the blaring from the television as each and every member of the pack turns to stare at Derek incredulously. "What?" he grumbles. "It is!"

A few eyebrows start climbing towards hairlines.

Derek's eyes narrow dangerously. "You can all go to hell," he says, though there's far more fond exasperation than actual threat in his tone. Scott manages to contain himself for exactly five seconds before he starts snickering, which sets Jackson and Stiles off. Stiles turns slightly from where he's mostly sprawled out on his side across Derek's chest (seriously one of the few positions that even marginally helps his aching back these days), tucking his face against Derek's shoulder as he laughs.

Tadpole shifts with the movement, landing a fairly solid kick against Stiles' ribs. He's still laughing, but the sound dies in his throat when he hears Derek suddenly inhale sharply, his muscles tensing.

"What?" he asks, worried for a brief moment…but Derek's eyes are zeroed in on his abdomen (which, while still not as big as some pictures he's seen online, can definitely no longer be called anything but a belly. He refuses to refer to it as a bump…but even his largest, loosest sweats aren't going to be wearable much longer), and there's an expression on his face that can only be described as thunderstruck.

"I felt that," Derek says quietly, and Stiles instantly wiggles into a sitting position.

"Really?!" He's been feeling Tadpole's movements for almost three weeks now, little kicks and flutters that he may or may not have teared up a little over the first time he felt them, but the others have had no luck. He concentrates for a moment, before grabbing Derek's hand and pressing it against his side. There's another little push, and Derek actually startles back a little. Well, more like his shoulders twitch a bit, but Stiles has had a fair bit of practice at decoding the man's rather understated body language, and yes—that's amazement. Wonder, even. Derek glances up at him, his mouth quirking into the full, open grin that even after all these years is rarely seen outside of private moments between him and Stiles.

"Oh my God, you can feel the baby kicking?" Erica calls from across the room, and in seconds, the stacks of wedding magazines are abandoned as all three of the women leap up from the dining room table. Stiles rolls his eyes as there is a werewolf stampede to the couch (he's fairly certain he sees Lydia trip Scott out of the corner of his eye), and he's treated to the sight of multiple twenty-something adults bouncing like little kids on Christmas morning as they look to Derek for permission with their hands already reaching out towards Stiles' belly.

Stiles thinks it's cosmically unfair that no one ever looks to _him_ for permission before touching his stomach. Not that he minds the pack touching him (that ship sailed during his senior year of high school the first time he sacked out on the couch and woke up to find Isaac and Erica had let themselves into his house at some point and were practically laying in his lap)…but if one more random person at the grocery store tries to reach out and rub his stomach, he's not going to be responsible for his actions.

Derek looks like he's going to refuse to let anyone else feel for a moment before heaving a put-upon sigh and shifting out of the way. For the next half hour, Stiles is poked, and prodded, and pressed, and Tadpole obligingly kicks a bit for the whole pack (Scott and Isaac get particularly enthusiastic thumps and crow triumphantly, high-fiving each other like they've won a competition, and declaring that this means they get to share the title of favorite uncle). Eventually, Tadpole settles down and the others drift back to their previous activities. Derek pulls him back against his chest and holds him close, pressing his face tightly against his neck.

Tadpole's acrobatics actually wake him up that night. Stiles mentally adds 'attention-hog' to his list of traits that his baby is clearly exhibiting…he has no doubt that Tadpole has figured out that people can feel it now and is kicking just to show off. He rubs his eyes sleepily and glances down where Derek's hand is already splayed across the space where Tadpole is currently tapping out what feels like a samba beat. In the faint moonlight drifting in through the window, Stiles can just barely make out Derek's face. He's lying on his side, eyes closed, but Stiles can tell he's not asleep. The hand not currently stroking against the little movements of their kid is pressed against Stiles' chest, right over the thump of his heartbeat, and there is a peaceful, blissed-out look on his features.

Stiles grins in the darkness and mentally high-fives his kid…because clearly Tadpole knows what his or her dad needs just as much as Stiles does.

* * *

Of course, something happens the next day.

It's been almost a year since their last _major_ crisis, after all…the worst they've had to deal with is a new family of hunters encroaching on their territory last Christmas, and they had turned out to be a rigidly traditional bunch who were friends with the Argents and upheld the Code with a fervor that bordered on religious zealotry. Once they were satisfied that the new generation of the Hale pack was not terrorizing the local human populace, they had moved on without any fuss.

They are getting dinner ready in the kitchen—just him, Derek, Boyd, Isaac, and Erica. Lydia and Jackson are out on a 'date night' and as it's Allison's last weekend before she has to go back to school, Scott has been drafted into dinner with her and her parents (Stiles can just imagine how awkward that is, but Allison refuses to take video for his entertainment, no matter how hard he begs). Stiles is chopping tomatoes for a quick salad, listening in amusement as Erica and Isaac bicker like children over whose turn it is to set the table, when all four of the werewolves suddenly go tense and still.

Derek's head snaps up from the book he's been reading at the island, his eyes gone blood red, and Boyd and Isaac suddenly crowd into Stiles' personal space, planting themselves solidly in front of him, already completely transformed. Alarmed, Stiles drops the knife on the cutting board and turns away from the counter, lightly resting a hand between Isaac's shoulder blades, but not even trying to step out from around him and Boyd.

"What's wrong?" he asks calmly, silently cursing the fact that whatever trouble has decided to visit their door has picked the one night in the past _month_ where the whole pack isn't gathered at the house. Derek tilts his head slightly, a low growl rumbling through his chest. Moments later, Stiles hears a long, drawn-out howl echoing from somewhere outside.

It's far off…probably at the very edges of what Derek considers the pack's territory…but that doesn't matter. It's a werewolf's howl, and _not_ anyone in the pack. There are strange wolves crossing into their territory, and Stiles goes cold inside at the thought of having to deal with a rival pack. Especially now, with the baby on the way. Derek will go _insane_.

As the last refrains of the howl die away, Derek leaps to his feet, Erica falling into place beside him. Boyd moves to follow them, but Isaac doesn't budge from his position in front of Stiles. Derek throws one look over his shoulder, pinning Stiles with a fiery glare. "Stay here," he says, and there is not even a hint of room for argument in his tone. "If we're not back in twenty minutes you call the others and go straight to Deaton's office. You _let Isaac protect you_."

Years ago, Stiles would have protested the heavy-handed orders just on general principle. They've long ago worked out a balance in this aspect of their relationship, though, and he knows how to pick the situations where he can argue. Strange werewolves wandering onto their territory unannounced? While he's pregnant?

Not one of those situations.

He nods shortly, knowing that Derek will read the acceptance in his eyes. Derek, Erica, and Boyd vanish out the back door to the deck so quickly Stiles can barely track the movement. The sounds of their crashing footsteps—so quick they have to be moving on all fours—are lost to his ears bare seconds after they leave the house, and he swallows heavily. He pushes lightly at Isaac's back, and meets the yellow flare of his eyes unflinchingly when Isaac whirls around.

"Can we go into the living room?" he asks. "I need my phone, and I want to sit down." Isaac's glowing eyes dart to the door the other three have just burst out of, before he nods.

Isaac crowds close to him as they walk into the living room, one clawed hand resting on his shoulder, his ears pricked in a decidedly canine fashion, listening for some signal from the others. It shouldn't be so comforting, having five razor-sharp claws only inches from his throat, but Isaac's presence is a soothing comfort. It helps calm the jackrabbit pace of his heart, the vague nausea that always swirls in his gut when any of the others—when _Derek_-is rushing into danger. He snatches his phone off the recharging station on one of the end tables and sinks down onto the couch with a sigh. Isaac paces restlessly back and forth in front of him as he pulls up his text screen.

Scott, Jackson, and Lydia have to know something's wrong. They would have felt Derek's agitation, if they hadn't heard the challenging howl. Screw waiting twenty minutes, they need to be informed _now_. He debates withhimself silently, trying to decide if it would be better to have the rest of the pack at the house for immediate backup, or have them remain where they are to scatter targets if things go bad.

He tries not to think about things going bad.

After a moment, he texts Lydia to come out to the house with Jackson. He tells Scott to stay where he is and be ready to read the Argents in on what's going on if Derek doesn't return in the allotted timeframe. Afterwards, he texts his dad and tells him to try and steer any investigation of 'wild animal disturbances' away from the north part of town. When he's made sure everyone is up to speed and arranged the 'troops' to his liking, there's nothing left to do but wait.

God, how he hates waiting.

He sinks back against the couch cushions, drawing his legs up underneath him as much as he can and resting one hand over the frantic kicking in his stomach, as though Tadpole can sense the tension in the air outside Stiles' body and is reacting accordingly. He resolutely _does not think about_ the last time they'd had to deal with rogue wolves in their area, how Boyd and Erica had almost _died_ before Derek had managed to take down the other pack's Alpha. He racks his brain as he waits, trying to come up with plans and contingencies based on such limited information, and Isaac keeps pacing, one hand occasionally darting out to brush over Stiles' knee or shoulder.

The fifteen minutes they wait seem to crawl by…but finally, _finally_, Isaac freezes. For a second time, the night air is split by a long, eerie howl…but this one, Stiles recognizes.

He would know Derek's voice anywhere, in any form.

Isaac tilts his head, slightly, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. Not all of it, though, and Stiles silently braces himself.

"Huh," Isaac mutters, "_that's_ interesting."


	13. Chapter 13

"What, what's interesting?" Stiles demands immediately, trying to heft himself up off of the couch. Isaac just shakes his head, ears still cocked towards the front door, and Stiles blows out a sharp, agitated breath. "Oh my God, dude, you can't say shit like that—who _says_ shit like that? Haven't you been paying attention? Our lives are a horror movie, Isaac! We are a supernatural drama on the CW or MTV or something, and you can't _say stuff like that_!"

He's babbling, on the edge of the kind of spastic hysteria that he hasn't really experienced since high school, and that he had honestly thought he had a handle on. Derek had been worried, though, and is out there with minimal backup, and Stiles is _hormonal as **fuck**_ right now…and he can't help it. Isaac suddenly whips toward him, eyes wide as he realizes that Stiles is on the edge of panicking.

"No, no, no…Stiles, it's okay!" Isaac rushes to assure, reaching over to rest a clawed hand on Stiles' shoulder. "Shit, no, please calm down, Derek's gonna—"

There is an almighty thump on the front porch and that is all the warning they get before the front door slams open—and had it been locked, Stiles is pretty sure it would have just disintegrated—and Derek barrels through. Full Alpha form, eyes glowing blood red and lips drawn back from his fangs.

"Kill me," Isaac finishes glumly, shrinking away as Derek throws himself at Stiles, practically pulling him off his feet as Derek wraps himself around him, eyes darting everywhere in search of a threat.

Stiles lets himself be manhandled, pressing his forehead against Derek's shoulder with a shaky sigh. He hears Isaac make a soft sound behind him, something between a whimper and a moan, and he can practically feel the heat of the glare Derek is leveling at the Beta as he apparently realizes there's nothing immediately wrong in the house. Stiles turns his face into the side of Derek's neck, brushes his mouth against the angry throb of Derek's pulse.

"Sorry," he murmurs sheepishly. "I overreacted." A growl rumbles through Derek's chest, but he feels the planes of the face resting against the top of his head smooth over into something a little closer to human. Even so, he hears Isaac slink towards the kitchen while the getting is good…and when Derek tilts his chin up to press a firm kiss to Stiles' lips, he definitely feels the edge of fangs. "What's going on?" he asks as soon as Derek pulls back.

Derek sighs, tightening his arms around his waist, and brushing one hand over his swollen stomach. "Problems," he mutters darkly, and turns toward the still-open door as another flurry of footsteps sounds from outside.

Boyd and Erica appear in the doorway, breathing hard and clearly having just run flat-out back to the house. Derek shakes his head slightly at their worried, inquiring looks, and the two instantly relax a bit. Stiles, though, tenses up as he catches sight of two figures standing just behind Erica and Boyd.

"Yeah. I see that," he says, swallowing convulsively at the sight of two unfamiliar werewolves, their eyes glowing the same electric blue as Derek's once had.

* * *

This, Stiles reflects thoughtfully as he stirs a spoonful of sugar into his steaming mug of peppermint tea, has got to be one of the most surreal things that has happened to him in recent memory. And given the litany of surreal things that have happened to him since the night Scott was bitten, that is _saying_ something.

He smiles reassuringly at Isaac as Isaac sets a small tray with cream, sugar, and a plate of _cookies_ (just a handful of those store-bought butter cookies that come in the blue tins, but cookies nonetheless), while Erica gets on her phone and texts a general 'stand-down' to the rest of the pack. Stiles watches thoughtfully as everyone bustles around, fixing their coffee to their liking, and snags a couple of cookies before anyone else does. He fixedly ignores the disappointed looks Erica and Boyd shoot him—there are strange werewolves in his house having _coffee and cookies_.

He's damn well going to need sugar for this.

Besides, no one is going to dare be anything but completely deferential to their Alpha's mate in front of strangers. He thinks he's showing admirable restraint by not taking shameless advantage and swiping his first cup of coffee in six months.

Derek doesn't bother with coffee, just settles down on the couch next to him, immediately leaning into Stiles' personal space and draping one hand over Stiles' knee. Stiles doesn't miss the tension in the lines of Derek's shoulders, the way he's holding himself ready to spring at even the hint of a threat…but he's completely human and there's no growl vibrating in his chest and throat, so Stiles knows Derek isn't actually _expecting_ to have to spring at a threat. He starts nibbling on one of the cookies.

The two men sitting on the couch opposite him and Derek are a little older than them—probably in their mid-thirties. There is a coiled, easy grace about their movements that tells Stiles they're probably born wolves, rather than bitten. There is a similarity in their features—though one of them is quite a bit more heavy-set than the other, thick and muscular in a way even Derek and Boyd can't approach—that marks them as related. Stiles would put money on them being brothers, even though their coloring is different—one of them dark-haired with wide brown eyes, and the other a hazel-eyed blond.

They are currently watching Derek warily…deferential, but meeting his eyes squarely. Despite himself, Stiles finds the interplay fascinating. He's never had the opportunity to observe interactions between two different packs when one of them is not actively trying to kill the other. It's interesting.

But there's only so much awkward tension and posturing that he can take before his mouth kicks in gear. Call it a defense mechanism.

"So…care to share with the rest of the class, or do we have to guess what's going on?" he asks lightly, and doesn't flinch when the two strangers immediately zero in on him. The bigger one's eyes slide down to his belly, and Stiles is surprised (and a little alarmed) to see a flash of what looks like worry in his brown eyes before they settle back into cool appraisal.

"This is Joshua Randall," Derek says, jerking his chin towards the big guy, "and his brother Evan. They're Jacob Randall's sons…Joshua is Jacob's second."

"Wait, isn't that your parents' friend? The one you were visiting when, well, you know." Stiles pokes a little at the top of the swell of his stomach, and Tadpole obligingly kicks a bit. Then he tilts his head, biting his lip a little. "You were visiting a werewolf named Jacob?" he asks, and Erica immediately has to smother a snort of laughter.

"Stiles," Derek says warningly, but the smaller brother, Evan, just waves him off.

"Believe me, he's not going to come up with anything we haven't already. We've been teasing the old man about it for years. Damn books." A little of the tension drains out of the room. Derek heaves a put upon sigh—but he squeezes Stiles' knee a bit in gratitude.

"What are you doing here?" Derek asks after a moment. "You're welcome, of course, but this doesn't feel like a social call."

Given the fact that Derek, Erica, and Boyd tore out of the kitchen as though their territory was being invaded, Stiles thinks that's a bit of an understatement. Immediately, the brothers sober. Joshua looks grave as he sets his coffee mug down on the table between the two couches and leans forward.

"It's not. But we've made a mistake…if we'd known you and your, uh…" he stumbles a bit, clearly unsure which title to use in the face of Stiles being, well, human, and it's Stiles' turn to wave dismissively.

"Ours is a love that transcends labels," he says breezily, and this time Erica can't smother her laughter. Neither can Isaac, and Boyd's shoulders twitch suspiciously. This time, there is a warning in the pressure Derek puts on his knee. "I mean, I'm down with the werewolf lingo," Stiles amends hastily. "Mates. Life-partners. Wolf-married. Love muffins. Oh God, Derek, why aren't you stopping me? I thought we talked about this."

To their credit, Joshua and Evan only look at Stiles like he's sprouted a second head for a few seconds before regaining their composure. Joshua shakes his head a bit—a common reaction to him, Stiles has always noticed—before resting his elbows on his knees and steepling his fingers under his chin.

"We wouldn't have come if we'd known you two were expecting," he says quietly.

Beside him, Derek goes absolutely still, and the others shift closer to them without making a sound. "What do you mean by that?" Derek asks, in the tone Stiles privately calls Derek's serial killer voice. Joshua and Evan may not be as up on the many nuances of Derek's tones and body language as Stiles is (seriously, for the first year of their relationship, he'd felt like an explorer translating a hitherto unknown language), but they can tell Derek's not in the mood for prevarication.

"There's a territory dispute going on between our pack and another one a little farther north of us. They're larger, and they've been encroaching on our territory for the past month. Dad finally agreed to meet their Alpha for negotiations, but—"

"But you want to meet in neutral territory," Derek finishes shortly. "Why's this a threat?" It's phrased as a question, but Derek's hand is steadily tightening on Stiles' knee, and it's clear he expects an answer.

"We don't trust them," Joshua says bluntly. "They're…there's just something _wrong_ there, and it's not just that they want our land. Hell, it's been years since any of us have even been up in the area they want to expand to. Dad wouldn't have a problem with ceding some territory, but…"

"It doesn't feel safe," Evan finishes. "They haven't directly threatened any of us, their Alpha has been perfectly polite to Dad, but something's just not right."

"And you want to bring them into _my_ territory. _Now_." Derek's voice is flat, and Stiles hears the other three abandon their places, lining up behind the couch to stand over Derek's shoulder.

"Derek, I swear if we'd known, Dad never would have suggested it. He wouldn't put your mate in harm's way," Evan says uneasily.

"Wait, why are you talking like this is a big, inevitable done deal? I mean, I may not be up on the entirety of the secret werewolf bro-code, but I know you can't just invade _neutral territory_. Kinda defeats the purpose of the whole 'neutral' thing," Stiles says suddenly. Derek starts a little beside him, and Stiles doesn't need to look to know his eyes are sharpening in sudden suspicion.

Joshua and Evan shift uncomfortably on the couch, and some instinct propels Stiles to lay his hand on top of the one Derek is resting on his knee and _squeeze_, digging his nails a little into the back of Derek's wrist. "Dad already set the meeting…they'll be here the day after tomorrow," Joshua says carefully.

And yeah, Stiles, pretty much slumps his whole body onto Derek's shoulder, forcing Derek to either remain in his seat (and consequently not dive across the coffee table at their guests) or risk throwing Stiles to the floor.

"You **what**?" Derek's words are more growl than voice, and Stiles feels the other three bristling behind them. Joshua and Evan dart quick, worried glances at each other, and Stiles…

Stiles narrows his eyes slightly, pieces of the full picture here falling into place like a cascade of dominoes.

"It's a power play," he says, nodding to himself, sure he's right. Derek's gaze snaps to him, his irises sheened red. "That's it, isn't it? It's just intimidation tactics. For the other pack! For the other pack, not for us!" he hurriedly adds when the low-level growl in Derek's chest starts to go full throated. "Derek, c'mon…you said yourself, Randall was your parents' friend. Unless you were a complete asshat last spring—and okay, yeah, not totally outside the realms of possibility, but you're usually better these days—he wouldn't set us up. He wouldn't, right? I mean, I'm not arguing my way into helping you with some evil plot?" Stiles glances over at Joshua and Evan…who are staring at him, open-mouthed.

"Nah, if there was an evil plot, you totally would've just taken Derek out when he visited last spring." Stiles nods to himself, feeling Derek's body slowly start to relax. "So, you're trying to psych the other pack out. That's why your dad sent you two here ahead of him."

"How does that psych anyone out?" Isaac asks curiously. Stiles adjusts himself to lean more comfortably against Derek, idly rubbing one hand against the side of his stomach, where Tadpole is currently kicking up a storm.

"It's all about appearances," Stiles muses aloud. "The Hale name is still a pretty big deal, I think. We've got a rep. Randall's making it look like our packs are close enough that he can do things like just assume we'll mediate something as important as territory negotiations. But he sends his second down to formally ask us for permission. It's like how some friends have to knock on your door, and some friends just have their own key to your house, you know? Randall's making it look like he has his own key to our house by just going ahead and scheduling the meeting, which makes his pack look stronger. But he's showing that he respects Derek enough to ask before he uses his key by sending down his two main Betas, which makes us look stronger." Stiles shoots Joshua and Evan a winning smile. "I mean, I think we should totally have our own keys to each other's houses…it'd be nice to talk to some packs who aren't trying to rip off our faces."

Derek huffs softly, shaking his head as he slings his arm around Stiles' shoulders and draws him close. Joshua's eyes have gotten wider and wider as Stiles talked, and he clears his throat.

"You…you have an excellent grasp of pack politics. My father had to lay that out for me twice before I understood what he was trying to do."

"Don't let him fool you. I'm pretty sure at least seventy percent of that came from watching mob movies," Derek says, but Stiles hears the pride in his voice.

"Yeah, you mock. You have no idea how often the Godfather trilogy has saved our lives," Stiles says loftily. The momentary levity quickly evaporates, though, as Derek turns his full attention back to the Randall brothers.

"What is it you need us to do?" he asks evenly.

* * *

All told, it's nearly two in the morning before Joshua and Evan take their leave, heading back up the highway to the small motel where they're staying. They'll meet the representatives of the two warring packs at the edge of the Hale territory in two days, and the actual negotiations will take place at the house. Jackson, Lydia, and Scott all arrive at different points in the evening, and by the time everyone is brought up to speed and Derek feels as though he's gleaned everything he can from Joshua and Evan, Stiles is exhausted.

He gets up with Derek to see the Randalls out, and by the time the door closes, he's resting most of his weight against Derek's warm, solid bulk. "Well. That was—" his words are interrupted by a jaw-cracking yawn, "-_super_ fun," he finishes, and even his snark sounds wilted and tired. Tadpole is quiet, only shifting occasionally, and Stiles can practically hear the siren's call of their bed. "You're not gonna do something stupid like try to strategize now, are you? 'Cause I don't think I could plot my way through a game of Risk right now."

Derek chuckles a little, turning so that Stiles is leaning against his chest. "No. Everyone get some sleep…we'll figure out what we're going to do about this tomorrow."

"Mmm, awesome. I'll make waffles. Do we have maps and walkie-talkies?" He hears the others start slowly making their way up the stairs. Derek laughs again, and Stiles loves the way the sound vibrates against his cheek.

"What do you want maps and walkie-talkies for?" Derek shifts slightly, bending, and Stiles hums in soft contentment as Derek suddenly just scoops him up into his arms. It used to bother him—still does, a lot of the time, if he's honest; he puts up with a certain amount of manhandling, but he doesn't have to _like_ it—but their bed seems ridiculously far away and he's so tired. He slings an arm around Derek's neck and resolves to just enjoy the pampering.

"We're doing battle plans," he mumbles. "We've gotta have maps and walkie-talkies. And code names. Maps, code names, and waffles." He nods decisively against Derek's shoulder, his eyes slipping closed.

"Sounds like a plan," Derek agrees solemnly.

Stiles forces his eyes open as Derek gently deposits him on their bed, looking up at the other man seriously. "You gonna be okay with all this?" He scrubs tiredly at his eyes, and hears Derek sigh above him.

"Don't suppose I can talk you into going and staying with your father the night they're all here?" he asks hopefully. Stiles frowns slightly, shaking his head.

"I'd do it," he says gravely. "If you really wanted me to, if it would make you feel better. But we can't." Derek sighs gustily, annoyed.

"No. We can't," he mutters.

They couldn't show any kind of weakness, if the invading pack turned out to be as dangerous as Randall seemed to think they were. If Randall thought it was important to show a strong, united front…then they needed to do that.

The mediating Alpha hiding his mate away from the proceedings like he was afraid something bad was going to happen?

Not a strong, united front.

Stiles kicks his shoes off and wiggles out of his sweatpants as Derek quietly disrobes. They slip under the sheets together, and Stiles smiles happily as Derek draws him close. "I just want you safe," Derek mumbles, and even after years together, this kind of vulnerability sounds like it's being dragged out of him by force. He slides his hand down to rest on the swell of their baby. "Both of you."

Stiles tucks his head under Derek's chin. "We will be. We've got you. We've got the others. Nothing's going to happen."

Derek's free hand slides up to caress his head, nails lightly scratching against Stiles' scalp. He makes a noncommittal noise in his throat. Stiles closes his eyes, and Derek doesn't speak again until he's already sliding over the edge into sleep.

"Something just doesn't feel right," Derek murmurs.

And a little over forty-eight hours later, Stiles discovers how terribly, terribly right Derek is.


	14. Chapter 14

Hello,

I would like to thank everyone for the favorites and alerts and reviews. I am so glad people are enjoying this!

* * *

The day of the meeting, the tension in the house is thick enough to cut with a knife. Everyone is grim and silent, walking around on tenterhooks as they shift furniture around in the living room to accommodate the group of wolves that is going to be descending on their home that night. Stiles hadn't actually thought it possible…but as it turns out there _are_ levels of personal space invasion that the pack hasn't stooped to before. The entire day, there is hardly more than six inches of space between him and the nearest pack member.

He doesn't like it. He knows some of it is down to their protective instincts going absolutely fucking _nuts_ at the thought of strange werewolves being around him right now. From what he's been able to glean out of research, Dr. Deaton, and the odd bit of information Derek remembers from his childhood, it's practically _unheard_ of for a pack to accept a duty like a dispute mediation while one of their members is expecting. Even when the participating packs are all friends and there's zero probability of negotiations breaking down into violence…packs just don't accept other werewolves into their territory while any of their members is so vulnerable. So, yes, some of the tension is a result of that.

Most of it, though, is down to the way Derek's whole body had gone taut and still when he'd gotten in touch with Jacob Randall the night before. The way he'd started pacing back and forth as the conversation progressed, one hand raking back agitatedly through his hair, and the way he'd thrown the phone across the room when he finally disconnected.

"It's nothing he can prove, nothing he can use to refuse to negotiate with them. There's just rumors about the way their current Alpha took power," he'd said, and no one had to ask what kind of 'rumors' Randall had been referring to.

Stiles watches them move things around, forbidden by _everyone_ from doing more than supervising and making sure there's plenty of drinks available. While he's annoyed that everyone just abandoned him to play host (like, are they supposed to serve hors d'oeuvres or something? All they have in any quantity at the moment are pizza rolls and the jars of black olives that are Stiles' current craving…and _fuck_ if anyone's getting their claws on his black olives!), he's certainly not going to complain about not having to move couches around. So he watches, and silently turns the whole situation over and over in his mind. He inspects it like a puzzle, probing and poking at the information, trying to rearrange it in some way that makes sense.

The other pack—led by a female Alpha named Caroline Anderson—is larger than Jacob Randall's. There are apparently rumors floating around that Anderson took over the position of Alpha forcibly. Derek doesn't exactly have a ton of contact with other packs, but Stiles has supernatural research down to a fine art these days, and he's done some digging in the past forty-eight hours. There's not much concrete information available on the Anderson pack…but what he can find makes him think they don't actually have a problem with using violence to solve their problems. Negotiating isn't really their style. There's something wrong with the whole thing. Derek thinks so, Randall thinks so, _Stiles_ thinks so, and after all this time, Stiles has pretty much learned to just go with it when it comes to instincts.

They're locked into this course of action, though. Unless Randall wants a full-out fight on his hands, they're going to have to negotiate and hope that if he and Derek present themselves as strong allies, it will be enough to put Anderson off the thought of attacking. It's a good plan, a solid plan—if a little more subtle than Stiles is used to dealing with after so many years of plunging headfirst into Derek and Scott's messes—but there's something about it that just rubs Stiles the wrong way.

He watches everyone prepare themselves, watches the twitchy, sidelong glances they keep casting at Derek, watches the way Derek paces like a caged animal when he thinks the others are otherwise occupied. He can't shake the feeling that something bad is going to happen. He knows by the way that Derek keeps watching him, keeps sidling up beside him to draw him tightly against Derek's chest, his face buried in the crook of Stiles' neck and his hands stroking reverently against their baby's tiny kicks, that Derek feels it, too.

And Stiles has never been particularly good at just sitting back and letting things happen.

"Hey Jackson," he calls, when the living room is finally rearranged and Derek has taken up a position staring out one of the front windows, glaring at the driveway as though it's done him some personal injury. "Come here a minute, will you?"

* * *

They are all gathered in the living room, pretending to watch a newsreel on mute, when the entire pack goes tense and still. It's kind of eerie to watch, actually. Stiles' eyes flick over his friends—his family—and nervously runs his hand over his stomach. After a few moments, he can hear the crunch of gravel under tires, as well. Derek draws in a deep breath, one hand skating over the back of Stiles' neck to squeeze briefly.

"Anything happens, I mean _anything_, you stay behind me or Scott. No matter what," Derek says tersely, his voice barely a whisper against Stiles' ear.

"Promise," Stiles says immediately, not even bothering to protest. If something happens, he wants as many of their pack in between Tadpole and danger as possible. Derek nods in satisfaction, taking another breath as he rises from the couch.

As he does, Stiles can literally watch everything about Derek that has smoothed, and mellowed, and gentled over the years just…drain away like water out of a broken pitcher. His whole bearing changes, his shoulders tightening, lips thinning into a barely-there grimace as his eyes go cold and hard. He looks like he did back when Stiles and Scott and the rest were all in high school, all coiled violence and barely-leashed power.

Stiles swallows softly, and hates this entire situation a little bit more.

They stand together, the entire pack arranging themselves into a loose group around him and Derek. Stiles spares a moment to wish Allison was here—human solidarity and all that—but she, Derek, Stiles, and Scott had reluctantly decided that having a member of a known hunter family present would probably cause more tension than it was worth. He curls his fingers lightly around Derek's wrist for a moment, and then there is a solid knock on their door and there is no room for anything but game faces.

Jacob Randall enters first, trailed by his two sons and two other Betas, a man and a woman. Stiles has never met Randall, of course, but there is no mistaking an Alpha for anything else. The man is tall, taller than Derek by a couple of inches, and just as broad and barrel-chested as his son Joshua. Clearly, the man was solid muscle when he was younger…he has to be in his late fifties or early sixties and he looks nearly as fit as Derek and Boyd. His face is the deep, weathered tan of someone who has lived their life outdoors, but surprisingly unlined, and a neat ponytail of dark brown hair is only just starting to streak silver at the temples.

Randall shakes Derek's hand firmly, and nods politely to the rest of the pack as they are introduced. When his dark eyes meet Stiles', though, his whole face seems to soften. Stiles can read an apology in the man's expression, a deep-seated regret as he offers his hand for Stiles to shake. He really does feel terrible about putting Derek in this position, about putting Stiles and their baby in any possible danger. It doesn't really change anything…but it makes Stiles feel a bit better about the man.

The two strange Betas, their dark coloring and similar features marking them as another pair of siblings, are introduced as Joshua's wife, Beth, and her younger brother James. The two are a bit less stiff and formal than Jacob and his sons, and there is a mischievous tilt in Beth Randall's smile when she's introduced to Stiles that makes him think he might like to talk to her when this is all over.

Once the introductions have been made, the Randall pack steps aside to reveal another group of people—werewolves—standing in the doorway. Despite himself, Stiles shifts a little closer to Derek, feels Scott shift closer, as well, where he's standing just behind Stiles. When the group actually enters, though, he's a bit surprised.

He was expecting…well, he's honestly not sure _what_ he was expecting. It wasn't this, though.

Caroline Anderson doesn't strike him as crazy. She doesn't strike him as violent. She doesn't have the general air of creepiness that Peter Hale had exuded, and she doesn't give off the cocky I-could-kill-you-with-my-pinky vibe that Isaac and Erica had fallen victim to right after they were turned. She's not a particularly imposing woman—Stiles would guess she's in her early forties, average height, with calm green eyes and ash-blonde hair cropped close to her head in an attractive, no-nonsense fashion. She's respectful, but clearly not the least bit anxious when she introduces herself to Derek, and though she's a little dismissive of the rest of the pack, she smiles kindly at Stiles and offers him her congratulations when it's his turn to be presented. Certainly, she gives off the same aura of power as Derek and Jacob do…but, yeah, no mistaking Alphas for anything but Alphas.

She seems normal.

It sets off alarm bells in Stiles' head. 'Normal' is never 'normal' when dealing with supernatural beings. Almost a decade running with werewolves (and basically every horror movie, like, _ever_) has taught him that. She sets his teeth on edge, and a glance over at Derek shows that the other man has gone into full-on Jack the Ripper mode with his serial killer face. Stiles sighs softly and lets his gaze drift over Anderson's Betas.

He's at least somewhat reassured there. She's only brought three of her people with her—two fairly burly men, and a wisp of a girl that can't be more than nineteen or twenty. The biggest of Anderson's Betas (a man of Hispanic descent who is simply introduced as 'Martinez') doesn't look like he could take any of their pack or Randall's, and his companion (a rather bland looking man with a shaved head and pale eyes who calls himself 'Hicks') doesn't look like he'd fare any better. The girl, though…

Stiles is surprised to realize she's human. There's no reason that should particularly surprise him…humans _are_ quite often part of werewolf packs these days. Children who didn't inherit the change. Family members of bitten wolves who don't want the bite themselves.

Hyperactive, stubborn sidekicks who fall madly in love with sour, smoking hot Alphas and refuse to back down until said sour, smoking hot Alphas admit that they feel the same way.

There's something niggling at him, though. Something about her that doesn't fit in with the image of Anderson's pack that his research had formed. He looks her up and down as Anderson draws her forward, one arm around her thin shoulders. She introduces her simply as Angela, with no explanation as to what she is to the pack—and Stiles doesn't miss the way Derek's shoulder tense even more, if possible, at that. Everything about Angela is small and unassuming—dishwater blond hair falling in a limp braid down her back, muddy brown eyes regarding their pack nervously as she picks at the sleeve of her shirt. When she steps forward, Stiles is smacked in the face with the scent of patchouli. The girl _reeks_ of it, and if Stiles' nose twitches at it, it has to be driving the werewolves in the room nuts.

When Angela steps back, falling into place right behind Anderson's shoulder, Stiles sees just what it is about her that bothers him. It's there for barely an instant—a slight twist of her features before they smooth back over into a timid, inconspicuous mask. In that instant, Stiles sees a sharpness in her eyes, a calculating awareness that he well recognizes. It's sat on his own face plenty of times, after all. This girl _wants_ to be underestimated, wants to be dismissed and looked over.

Stiles resolves not to.

There is a moment of awkward silence after introductions are finally completed, before Derek jerks his head to the setup they've arranged in the living room. Every couch, armchair, and loveseat in the house has been dragged into a loose circle around two coffee tables (one that sits in the living room, and the other from the small reading nook up in Derek and Stiles' bedroom) lined up side by side. A large map of the disputed territory—that Stiles had paid to have sent overnight mail from a local forestry service office—is spread out over the tables.

Derek will actually participate very little in the proceedings. Their pack's primary job will be to witness the negotiations…Randall and Anderson will be doing most of the talking. The three packs arrange themselves around the tables, Derek firmly pulling Stiles down beside him on one of the loveseats and angling his body—subtly, at least, Stiles has to give him credit—so that he's slightly blocking Stiles from the rest of the room.

Anderson sinks gracefully into one of the armchairs, Martinez and Hicks moving to stand on either side of her, while Angela drifts into the background. Randall's pack sprawls across one of the couches, and their own pack is left to find seats or spaces throughout the rest of the living room. Anderson doesn't seem the least bit put out that her pack is so vastly outnumbered, and that, too, sets Stiles' teeth on edge.

He doesn't really know what to expect from the negotiations. Derek's parents had established their territory long before he was born, and he's never been close enough to any pack to need to witness such proceedings. Yet, everything seems to be going…smoothly. Anderson and Randall are perfectly civil to each other, their Betas are mostly silent, and no one is making any particularly unreasonable requests.

It's off-putting.

This isn't how a werewolf pack with sufficient evidence to spark rumors of violence and underhandedness behaves. Either every bit of information Stiles was able to find about Anderson's pack was wrong or blown out of proportion, or…

Or.

One of Derek's hands is resting on Stiles' lower back, fingers rhythmically clenching and unclenching in the material of Stiles' shirt in a gesture Stiles knows means the other man is just as aware that something isn't right. Isaac, Boyd, and Erica have ranged themselves just behind the loveseat he and Derek are on, and Stiles can feel the heat of one of Isaac's hands resting on the back of the seat near his neck. Lydia and Jackson are curled together on one of armchairs. Lydia is watching the proceedings with cool, assessing eyes, and for all that she's curled into Jackson's side, Stiles can see that none of her weight would prevent Jackson from springing.

Scott…Scott looks a little confused. But Stiles stopped holding that against him when they were seven.

Angela doesn't appear to be paying much attention at all. She drifts around the room, trailing a cloud of patchouli-scented musk, stopping occasionally to admire some photo or bit of artwork on the walls. She makes no move towards any of the Betas, her pale, thin arms wound around her middle as though warding off a chill. Randall's sons and Lydia and Jackson follow her every movement at first, but after the fifth or so circuit she makes around the living room, Stiles sees them slowly start to dismiss her, and even he is wondering if perhaps he was just looking for trouble when he saw that odd flash across her face.

The negotiations drag on for one hour, then two. Stiles finds it fascinating for the first hour or so, but it quickly becomes obvious that werewolf bureaucracy is just the same as human bureaucracy: long, boring, and not particularly productive. It's obvious that Randall doesn't want to cede any territory to Anderson, and just as obvious that Anderson won't be withdrawing her request. Randall's Betas are starting to look frustrated, while Anderson's just look bored. Angela continues to circle the room, pausing occasionally to lean against the walls and watch the negotiations with an unreadable expression.

Stiles lasts about fifteen minutes into the second hour before he absolutely needs to move. Tadpole's kicks and flutters feel like they are pressing _right_ on his bladder, and he's going to regret it later tonight if he doesn't at least eat a snack soon. Quietly, he braces one hand on Derek's thigh and uses it to lever himself into a standing position. All eyes snap to him as soon as he moves, and he shrugs apologetically.

"Sorry. Need a break…anyone want anything to drink while I'm up?" he asks politely. "Coffee, tea? Soda?" Randall's pack collectively shake their heads, while Anderson's regard him with polite disinterest. "Okay then," he mutters awkwardly, and shuffles past Derek's legs to head for the washroom just off the dining room. He finishes his business as quickly as possible, and then detours to the kitchen for a couple of granola bars from the pantry. He's still going to have to deal with godawful nausea and heartburn tonight if he doesn't get a proper meal in the next couple hours, but no way in hell is he going to stay out of the living room long enough to actually eat.

He devours the granola bars in a couple of bites and moves back towards the living room. Angela is taking yet another circuit around the room when he reaches the doorway that separates the living room from the dining room. She's just floating vaguely along the wall, trailing her fingers over the smooth surface and looking at the pictures she's looked at several times already. From time to time she darts her hand down into the pocket of the knitted vest she's wearing, only to raise her hand to the wall again.

And it's only because Stiles is standing at just the right angle that he sees her fingers gleaming with some sort of oil when they come out of her pocket, sees the way those fingers twitch over the glossy paint Lydia had insisted on. They sketch something out on the wall, some sort of symbol, the sheen of the oil not even noticeable unless the light is hitting it just right, and _shit_, she's been doing this the whole time!

Stiles' heart starts to pound, and Derek's head instantly whips towards him, eyes already sheened over with red. Anderson sees the movement as well, and just like that, the veneer of civility and politeness drops. Her face twists into something ugly, and Angela just turns calmly away from the wall, the timidity gone from her posture.

"Boyd, get her!" Stiles shouts, pointing at Angela. Boyd is the closest to her, and he doesn't hesitate.

Several things happen at once.

Derek launches himself out of the loveseat, diving across the table straight at Anderson. Randall, his sons, and his two Betas leap to their feet as Anderson's Betas lunge forward, transforming as they go. Isaac and Erica hurl themselves in front of Stiles as Scott, Lydia, and Jackson follow Derek's attack trajectory.

It should be over in seconds. Three wolves and a human against Derek _and_ Randall's packs? It shouldn't even be a contest.

But overwhelming odds can always be bested. Their pack is proof enough of that.

Boyd leaps at Angela, fangs bared and claws outstretched…but before he can connect she shouts _something_. It sounds vaguely Latin to Stiles' ears, but it doesn't matter. As soon as the word crosses her lips, it feels as though all the air is being sucked out of the room. The walls—everywhere that Angela touched—start to _glow_; tiny sigils that pulse with a gold-orange light standing out on the paint at four points throughout the room.

Stiles stumbles forward as Derek collides with Martinez in midair, the two of them crashing down onto the coffee table. Jackson and Lydia lunge at the other Beta, Jackson's tail flashing out in a deadly arc, even as Randall goes for Anderson, both his sons a half-step behind him. Scott moves to help Derek as Boyd crashes into Angela, sending the girl tumbling to the floor. Her head strikes the corner of the end-table she's standing next to as she goes, and when she hits the floor, she doesn't get back up again.

It's too late, though. It's all too late.

The weird pressure crests in the room, so dense Stiles feels like he can't _breathe_, and the sigils all flare brighter. Then, suddenly, every werewolf in the room besides Anderson howls. Not the angry snarls and growls of battle…this is **agony**. Isaac and Erica drop to their knees in front of him, clutching at their heads as they _scream_, falling over on their sides to writhe on the floor. Boyd and Scott fare no better, falling to the ground and crying out as though they're being burned from the inside out, as though they're being flayed alive. Randall. Joshua. Evan. Randall's Betas…they all go down. Even Anderson's Beta, Hicks, is on the floor, twitching and yelping like the rest.

Derek _roars_, hunched over on his hands and knees as his whole body shakes. He's crouched over Martinez, blood shining on his fangs and Martinez will not be getting up again. Ever.

Stiles…Stiles gasps, clutching at his swollen stomach as pain like he's never known before rushes through him. He sinks to his knees slowly, his throat closing. It burns like acid in his veins, all of it centered on his midsection, and he realizes with a distant sort of horror that whatever Angela had done, it's not affecting _him_.

It's affecting his _baby_.

Anderson rises slowly from a defensive crouch in front of the chair she was sitting in, tilting her head as she surveys the writhing, pain-wracked figures on the floor. Her mouth twists unpleasantly when her eyes fall on Angela's limp body, but widens into a sick smile when she turns her attention back to Derek. Now, _now_ she looks crazed. Now she looks violent, and Stiles scrabbles desperately at the doorframe he's slumped against, trying to get enough leverage to get to his feet. He has to…he has to do something. His ears are ringing with the screams of his pack, of his family, and his baby…his and Derek's _child_….

"Nothing personal, Derek, please understand. But if there's going to be a power base in this part of California, it's going to be _my_ pack that controls it," Anderson says pleasantly. She kicks a few shattered pieces of the coffee tables out of her way as she takes a few steps closer to where Derek is crouched over the body of her Beta. Derek, incredibly, tries to lurch to his feet, his eyes glowing a shade of crimson Stiles doesn't know he's ever seen before. He snaps at her futilely, his muscles refusing to obey him, and Anderson laughs, meanly. "Poor Martinez, there, though? That's personal. I wish you hadn't done that. Now, I'm going to have to kill you all, I'm afraid…and do it quickly before Hicks over there strokes out. But first—" she trails off meaningfully.

And raises her red, red eyes to Stiles.

Derek roars again, lurching and lunging forward on his knees like a thing possessed. Anderson chuckles melodically and neatly sidesteps him, stalking across the room. She kicks at Joshua Randall as she passes, dodges the weak swipe of claws Scott manages to aim at her ankle.

Stiles redoubles his efforts to get up, even as Isaac and Erica struggle to drag themselves in front of him. They can barely move, now, though, and blood has started to trickle out of Isaac's nose. Stiles gasps for breath, the pain stealing his strength, his control over his own body…but he's not a werewolf. Whatever this is, it's not attacking him directly, and he gathers up every ounce of willful stubbornness in him and _fights_. He pulls himself halfway to his feet, his right hand snaking down to one of the many pockets on the loose cargo pants he's wearing.

Anderson pauses, an incredulous laugh bubbling out of her lips when he draws out a small switchblade, flicking the knife open with one thumb and holding it out in front of him with a shaking hand. It's nothing, a gag gift from Allison last Christmas, amusing because it's barely a _toy_ to a werewolf.

"Well," Anderson breathes. "You've got guts, I'll give you that."

Isaac and Erica are going crazy, trying to move, trying to _help_ him. Derek's roars are echoing through the room loud enough that Stiles' ears are ringing…but none of them can move. Dying. They're dying, right in front of him, and he can barely breathe as he clutches at the handle of the switchblade. He slides it through his hand so that the plastic is being gripped between his thumb and forefinger—just like Allison showed him, over and over until he got it, until it was second nature. He should be gripping the blade…but that won't help him. He breathes once, and then flings the knife with all his might.

She catches it. Of course, she catches it. He has the satisfaction of watching her wince slightly as the blade cuts into her palm, but then she just lets the knife clatter to the floor. "Guts," she reiterates. "Not a whole lot of brains."

Stiles slumps against the doorframe, hands going to his stomach again as wave after wave of pain wracks through him. "See," he pants, "I think…I've got…plenty of brains. Y-you guys…are the ones…who keep f-falling for that." Anderson's brow furrows, her eyes darting down to the blade on the floor—still glistening with viscous beads of Jackson's venom.

She gasps once, and drops.

Stiles squeezes his eyes shut, his knees trembling. The sigils are still glowing on the walls, and maybe, _maybe_ if Stiles can drag himself out of the living room, he can get away from the spell or hex or whatever it is…but that won't help the others. They're all still struggling on the floor, and Stiles can see blood leaking from their noses, their ears. Scott is howling in agony, while Erica keens desperately. Derek—Derek is still trying to inch himself towards Stiles, his claws digging grooves into the floor as he pulls himself inch by inch.

Stiles whimpers softly, braces himself as best he can, and forces his knees to lock. He shoves himself away from the doorframe, lurches along the wall, his heart pounding in fear, his breaths burning in his chest. He grits his teeth until his jaw aches, sliding himself along the wall until he reaches the nearest of the strange symbols. It's still glowing softly, still pulsing like a live coal on the paint. Desperately, he reaches up and slams his palm against it, trying to smear away the oil it was sketched in.

He wrenches his hand back with a scream, _heat_ pulsing in his hand, like the sigil had actually burned him. Behind him, he hears Anderson laugh, loudly.

"That won't work, sweetie. Poor little Angela is _very_ good at what she does."

Stiles gasps, falling against the wall at another wave of pain. His knees threaten to give out again and he bites back a sob. His pack's struggles are getting weaker. Even Derek can't keep himself on his knees anymore. He can feel Tadpole's movements inside of him getting slower, getting weaker.

They're dying.

His friends, his family, his child, his love, his _life_. They're all dying.

The sigils burn on the walls—their power invading his home, shattering the peace and safety of the house. Attacking everyone he cares about, everyone he loves.

Attacking his _baby_, and no. No, no, no, **no**.

His eyes snap open, some instinct burning through him. He stares at the sigil on the wall in front of him, at the burning light of it, and **no**. This will not happen, he will not lose his family, here. The sigils will not infect his home, will not destroy the love and happiness that they've all worked so hard to infuse this house with. Without giving himself time to think about it, he drops to his knees, stretches forward until he can grab Isaac's twitching, shaking hand.

"St-Stiles, wha—" Isaac slurs out, and Stiles just shushes him softly. He spares one moment to steel himself…and then he rakes his palm across Isaac's claws. The skin splits easily, blood welling up from the cuts—deep cuts, cut almost down to the _bone_-and Stiles gasps in shock. There's no time, though, no time to think about it, no time to wonder why he even thinks this will work, why he _knows_ this will work.

All he can do is haul himself back to his feet, awkward and shaky with the pain, with the weight of his stomach…but they're going to die, Tadpole is going to die if he doesn't do something. He jerks himself to his feet and stumbles forward, eyes narrowed, jaw clenched in determination.

His pack, his family, his child, his _everything_, and the power in these symbols wants to take that away from him. Wants to steal away his life, and Stiles has not fought the battles he's fought, has not lived through the things he's lived through to lose them now. He sucks in a deep breath and slams his bloodied hand against the sigil. He thinks of the pack, of Derek, of the baby he's carrying. Of everything Anderson wants to take away from him, everything she wants to steal. Everything he will fucking _die_ to protect. He thinks of them, and a cry wells up from inside of him like it's being dragged out of his soul.

"_**MINE**_!" he bellows, and feels something pulse outwards from his hand, out from his blood. The sigil burns against his palm, but the heat is different this time. He feels it, feels a change in the air, and suddenly the thick pressure starts to lessen. Stiles gasps again, the burning starting to recede in his hand.

The sigils still pulse on the walls—four symbols forming the boundaries of whatever it was Angela had done, but even as he looks at them, the glow is changing. Dimming, fading, and as the sigils fade, so does the terrible pain. The wolves stop shaking, stop screaming, and Stiles' eyes dart frantically over his pack, over Derek.

The pressure lessens, the taint of power fading away, and Stiles feels his legs folding up under him without his permission. He feels himself start sinking to the floor, his hands reaching up to cradle the swell of his stomach. It hurts…it still hurts, why does it still hurt? Everything is taking on an odd, hazy feel.

Everything except the pain that's still lancing through his abdomen. Hard cramps, stabbing flashes of pain, and he can't feel Tadpole moving anymore. He can't feel his baby.

He watches with dull eyes as Derek wrenches himself up, snarling like a rabid animal. There's nothing but mad rage in Derek's eyes as he lunges for Anderson's prone form, fangs bared.

"Stiles?" Isaac's frantic voice is in his ear, hands on his shoulders, shaking gently. "Stiles, what's wrong?"

There is a choked-off scream, a wet-sounding gasp and Stiles knows if he looks, he will see Derek crouched over yet another body, blood dripping from his claws and mouth. He doesn't want to look, doesn't want to see, and Isaac's voice is still in his ear, growing more and more frightened. He still hurts so much, and he can't feel his baby.

"Stiles!" Isaac shouts, and the shaking isn't so gentle anymore.

He can't feel his baby.

"Derek! Derek, help me! Something's wrong!"

There is a strange rushing sound in his ears, the stabbing pain in his abdomen cresting as everything around him takes on a strange, echoing quality. He is dimly aware of Derek calling his name, _screaming_ his name, of strong arms snatching him up and cradling him against a familiar chest.

But he can't feel his baby moving.

With the next wave of pain, the world fades away.


	15. Chapter 15

Heyas,

And so ends the angsty portion of our feature :) As always, I am extremely grateful for everyone who has commented, favorited, and rec'd this story. The response to this continually blows me away (and kinda shocks the hell outta me, gotta be honest), and I am so glad people are enjoying. I'm thinking this will probably be another four, maybe five chapters, and we are back to our regularly scheduled sugar-fest, with perhaps a few more dashes of actual plot. After all, there's gotta be some fallout from what happened with Anderson. And I will definitely be addressing exactly how Stiles saved everyone, and what implications it has for him :)

* * *

He's aware in snatches, brief bursts like a camera flash going off before his grip on the world slips again. It's like there's a gray fog covering his eyes, muffling everything around him.

Someone is talking to him, whispering reassurances that are immediately negated by the frantic begging of 'wake up, God…c'mon, wake up, Stiles, _please_'. He's being lifted, carried, cradled in strong arms; and he'd complain about being hauled around like a damsel in distress, but he can't get his mouth to work properly, can't find the energy to make his lips move. His head is lolling against a cotton-covered shoulder and someone else—not the one who's carrying him—is clutching one of his hands, squeezing it, trying to wrap it in something. There's pain, there, pain and heat and something wet and warm dripping, flowing gushing down.

It hurts. It hurts, but it doesn't hurt as much as the stabbing pain in his stomach. The pain that waits to pounce every time he surfaces a little from the stupor that seems to have enveloped him, pounces and pushes him back down into darkness. It doesn't hurt as much as the fact that he can't feel Tadpole. He can't feel his baby and there's something wrong. Something so terribly wrong.

"_Please_," he thinks hazily, when he surfaces again. He's outside. Whoever is carrying him—Derek, it has to be Derek—is moving quickly, jostling him as they half-jog, half-run. "_Please_," he thinks again, and is unsure of what he's begging for, exactly, but knows it's important.

He can't feel his baby.

"Scott-the bodies, we have to…" Derek starts, his voice right beside Stiles' ear.

"We got it, man, just _go_!" Scott's voice, also close. Scott's hands wrapped around his, pressing, squeezing, trying to stop the bleeding. Bleeding-his hand is bleeding. Why is his hand bleeding?

He can't feel his baby.

"_Please…just_," he thinks, and feels like he's trying to push the thought somewhere. A car door creaks open and he's jostled harder. Everything grays out and then he's stretched out across a seat, his head pillowed on Derek's thigh as Derek shouts, "Just drive, Isaac!" The car—they have to be in one of the cars—lurches and Derek is hunching protectively over him. "_Please…just stay_," he thinks, as Derek's arms wrap around him, as one of Derek's hands settles gently on the curve of their baby. It's shaking. Minutely, barely, but Derek's hand is shaking.

"You'll be all right, you'll both be all right," Derek is whispering, over and over, and it's meant to sound like a calm promise, but comes out like a desperate prayer.

"_Please…just stay,_" Stiles thinks, all of his thought and all of his rapidly waning energy focused on the life he's carrying, on the little heart that he prays to anyone listening is still beating, even though he can't feel his baby moving anymore. "_We love you so much, just stay. Stay with us," _he thinks, and keeps thinking it until the pain pulls him back under for good and the hazy gray goes black.

* * *

He wakes up in a hospital room.

It's impossible to mistake a hospital room for anything else. He opens his eyes to a white-tiled ceiling, instantly recognizes the sterile, antiseptic scent that doesn't quite cover up the smells of sickness. The buzzing, fluorescent bulbs in the ceiling are only half lit, lending the room a dim glow. He blinks stupidly for a moment, trying to remember how he landed in the hospital this time.

It's been a distressingly frequent occurrence in his life. Particularly since he started running with werewolves. He blinks, and shifts his head slightly, trying to get his bearings. His right hand feels strange, and when he looks down he finds it swathed in thick bandages, elevated slightly on a pillow that's been tucked against his side. There's a dull throbbing in his palm, and his brow furrows in confusion. There is an IV port on his good hand, the line leading up to what looks like a bag of saline, and another port taped in the crook of his right elbow, though it's currently empty. What—

He glances around the room, and his gaze freezes when it falls on the chair that has been dragged to his bedside. Derek is slumped in it, head tipped back and eyes closed. He looks _haggard_-dark circles standing out under his eyes, and what has to be a few days' worth of beard-growth on his face. Stiles inhales sharply. He knows exactly what it takes for a werewolf to look this ragged, and suddenly his mind starts firing on all cylinders.

He remembers the meeting, and Anderson and Angela, and _God_, the terrible pain of whatever Angela had done. He remembers his pack writhing on the ground in front of him, remembers how Anderson was going to kill them all. He remembers the weird certainty that had swept through him, remembers slicing his hand open on Isaac's claws and…and…

Derek jolts upright as soon as Stiles' breathing changes, eyes darting around the room in automatic search for a threat before they zero in on him. "Stiles," he breathes out, and there is an ocean of relief in his voice that tell Stiles everything he needs to know about how long he's been here and how worried Derek and the pack have been.

And finally, finally, he remembers the terrifying feeling of Tadpole's movements growing weaker, of finally not being able to feel his baby at all.

He jerks upright, nearly dislodging the port in the back of his hand, his breath catching in his throat. He ignores the flare of pain from his injured palm as his hands fly to the swell of his stomach…he can't, they _can't_ have lost Tadpole. After everything they've been through, everything they've lost in their lives, they can't have lost their child. His heart is pounding in his chest, and Derek is moving, is lunging from the chair to lean over him, hands gripping his shoulders.

"No, no, it's okay!" Derek says quietly. "He's fine. Stiles, he's fine! You're both going to be okay."

Stiles raises panicked eyes to Derek's face, still breathing too hard and too fast…but Derek is just looking back at him calmly. Silently, he sits down on the edge of the bed, drawing Stiles in close, laying his hand on the back of Stiles' neck as he presses their foreheads together. "Everything's all right," he whispers, and somehow sounds like he's reassuring himself as much as he's reassuring Stiles. Hesitantly, Stiles winds his arms around Derek's waist, mindful of the way his injured hand is throbbing now. He slowly drags his breathing back under control, and as he does he becomes aware of something taped to his body just over his hip, slightly uncomfortable in the way it's pressing against him.

His gaze finds the machine sitting by his bed, the one he should have noticed in the first place, and he calms still further at the sight of the fetal heart monitor's screen, beeping reassuringly with a steady beat—his baby's heartbeat. Almost as though in further comfort, Tadpole suddenly lands a solid, hard, absolutely _beautiful_ kick to his kidneys. Stiles squeezes his eyes closed, shifting slightly to bury his face against Derek's neck.

Derek suddenly pulls back with a slightly irritated huff, turning to look at the door. A few seconds later, it suddenly swings open. Scott spills in, eyes wide and worried. He looks almost as exhausted as Derek does (though evidently someone has at least been badgering Scott to shave). When he sees Stiles, sitting up and wrapped around Derek, he nearly wilts in relief.

"Oh, thank God," he says quietly. He glances up at Derek and some silent communication passes between the two. "I'll, uh, I'll go tell the others," he says. He looks like the last thing he wants to do is leave, but Derek jerks his chin toward the door in an unmistakable dismissal. Stiles offers his friend a weak grin, his eyes already starting to droop again. He's so tired.

"What…" He winces at the sound of his own voice, cracked and creaking, as he becomes aware of just how parched his throat is. Instantly, Derek moves, keeping one arm wrapped firmly around Stiles' back as he reaches across to the bedside table and a plastic carafe of water resting on it. One-handed, he fills a small paper cup, and Stiles can't help but roll his eyes a little when Derek holds it to his lips instead of just handing it to him. He sips greedily, though, forcing himself not to just gulp it down. "What happened?" he asks after a few moments. He blinks slowly, his good hand pressing against his side where he can feel Tadpole kicking firmly.

Derek goes still. Absolutely stone still, his eyes gleaming faintly red in the dim light. "Anderson tried to kill us all," he says finally. His voice is slow and measured, as if he's considering his words carefully. "Jacob thinks she probably just meant to take over his pack's territory…but when he called us in, she decided to take our pack out, too. She had—allies. Other packs she could have promised Beacon Hills to as a bargaining chip."

Stiles presses his lips together, a chill racing through him at the thought of what Anderson had almost managed to do, what she had almost managed to take from him. "She's dead, isn't she?" he asks, and it should worry him how cold his voice sounds, how utterly steady he is.

But Anderson had tried to destroy his family. They had done nothing to her, _would_ never have done anything to her, and she had tried to take away almost everyone in the world Stiles loved.

"Yes." Derek's voice is just as cold. Slowly, he lays his hand over top of Stiles', twining their fingers together. "Her Betas, too. The girl survived, but Deaton turned her over to some of his…contacts. He promised she wouldn't be able to hurt anyone again."

Stiles startles at that. "What? How long was I—"

"Four days," Derek interrupts, his voice gone low and rough. "You were just...they got the baby stabilized, stopped the c-contractions, but…" He breaks off, looking away. "You wouldn't wake up. They couldn't figure out why—you were just asleep. No one could tell me anything, _Deaton_ couldn't tell me anything, and you wouldn't wake up." Derek leans forward suddenly, wrapping one hand around the back of Stiles' neck again and pulling him close, so close that their mouths are a hairsbreadth apart, so close that Stiles can feel their breath mingling.

"You're all right," Derek murmurs, the words barely audible, barely catching on enough breath to carry. "You're both all right," he says, still a barely-there whisper. And Stiles hears the message beneath the words, the things Derek will never let himself admit out loud.

_I was afraid._

_I couldn't help you._

_I thought I was going to lose you._

Stiles swallows roughly, screwing his eyes shut. "We're both all right," he agrees, slipping his good hand out from under Derek's where it's resting on the swell of his stomach. He reaches up to grip Derek's wrist where is rests against his neck, tugging Derek forward those last few millimeters to kiss him fiercely. "We're all right," he breathes in between kisses, and lets himself believe it.

There is a slew of questions clamoring about in his head, things he wants to know (_needs_ to know), and he is perfectly aware that Derek isn't telling him everything. At the moment, though, there is one very important piece of information that finally registers in his brain. He pulls back, tilting his head slightly to look Derek in the eye.

"Did you say 'he'?" he asks. Derek looks confused for a bare instant, before his face clears, and he smiles softly. "You did! You said '_he's_ fine'!" Stiles' heart starts to race again, but for an entirely different—and very welcome—reason.

"The hospital called Dr. Evers as soon as they got your blood pressure stabilized. He ordered a bunch of tests…one of the ultrasounds, well. It's a boy." Derek shrugs, a little apologetically, but his eyes are shining. There is a grin playing at the corners of his mouth, and Stiles can see the tiredness, the worry, the _fear_ leeching out of him.

"A boy," Stiles repeats, a little numbly. "We're having a boy…holy shit, we're having a son." He feels his own grin starting to stretch across his mouth, chasing the low-level aches still thrumming through his body (particularly his hand) away. "Derek, we're having a _son_!" he gasps.

And then they are both laughing, the heavy, serious atmosphere evaporating as though it had never been there. Derek kisses him again, arms curling around him tightly, and Stiles feels their son—their _son_-kicking and flipping madly inside of him, as if he can sense how happy and relieved his parents are.

"Yeah," Derek says, the peaceful, happy smile that Stiles loves the most curving his mouth. "We're having a son."

"Yeah, you're having a son," Erica's voice calls from the doorway. Stiles looks over to find the others, minus Lydia and Jackson, grouped loosely by the door and clearly a breath away from just charging the bed. Scott and Isaac are practically vibrating with their need to get closer. Erica is smirking at them, hands on her hips…though the effect is ruined by the naked relief that is painting her features.

"Now for the love of God, will you tell us what's the name you picked?" she continues. "We have money riding on this!"


	16. Chapter 16

_September_

All told, Stiles is in the hospital for a week and a half before the doctors (and Dr. Evers) feel comfortable releasing him. Something about his blood pressure fluctuating too much. Possibly the fact that Stiles has a difficult time keeping his eyes open for more than twenty minutes at a time for a couple days after he wakes up that first time has something to do with it, too. He's just so damn _tired_. It hasn't been this bad since the very early days of his pregnancy.

He kind of drifts in and out those two days, everything blurring together. His father is there, most of the time—watching him with a strange mix of worry and relief, his hand always wrapped around Stiles', warm and reassuring. The rest of the pack is there, too. Scott and Allison are sometimes curled together in the vinyl-covered recliner by the window in Stiles' room. Erica and Boyd drift through his vision—Boyd reading quietly in one corner of the room while Erica swipes Stiles' jello off his dinner tray. Once or twice he wakes up to find Isaac gingerly sitting on the edge of his bed, just staring at him as though he's afraid Stiles will disappear if he blinks. Lydia and Jackson put in a few appearances, bringing with them a bouquet of brightly colored balloons and a box of expensive chocolates (most of which Jackson has eaten by the time they have to leave).

He's even fairly certain Deaton shows up at one point. He has a vague impression of Derek and the vet talking in hushed whispers above his bed—something about him and, weirdly, the house. Derek had looked frustrated and Deaton had looked like he wasn't telling everything he knew…but Derek hadn't looked _homicidal_ and Deaton never tells them everything he knows, so Stiles had filed it under 'things to worry about later'.

Derek is always there. Always. Sprawled across a chair dragged as close to Stiles' bed as possible, or looming beside him when Stiles' father or someone else from the pack is visiting. He utterly ignores visiting hours—with Melissa McCall's full support, so no one else hassles him—and climbs carefully into bed with Stiles at night. It's a tight fit, especially with the swell of Stiles' stomach and the need to be careful of his injured hand…but the only time Derek really seems to relax is when he's wrapped himself around Stiles as tightly as possible, one hand resting on the steady kicks and pushes of their son.

Their _son_. In his waking moments, he can't stop marveling over it.

Eventually, his blood pressure stabilizes. He stops feeling like eating breakfast is enough to warrant a nap. By the time he's been in the hospital for a week, he's alert enough to be bored. He's alert enough to notice the strange new intensity in the looks he keeps getting from the pack. He's alert enough to protest mightily when Dr. Evers—who has been driving down to Beacon Hills to see him every other day—tells him that he's putting him on:

"Bed rest?!" Stiles would like to believe that he bellows, or booms, or roars, or something else manly…but he doesn't. He fucking shrieks. There is nothing manly or commanding about it. Just—bed rest? Really? "What kind of bed rest?"

Dr. Evers' lips twitch a little in amusement, but he quickly turns solemn. "I mean complete bed rest, for the remainder of your pregnancy. I don't want you on your feet any more than twenty or thirty minutes at a time, and you are to avoid anything stressful at all costs. Nurse McCall—I understand she's a family friend?—anyway, Nurse McCall will go over the particulars with you."

"Oh my God, seriously? I'm not due until November! I can't just lie in bed for almost three months. I'll go crazy." The _pack_ will go crazy. He's already gotten the feeling that Derek's presence is the only thing that has kept them from totally wolfing out and forming a protective circle around his bed while he's been in the hospital. This will drive them around the bend. He actually can't bring himself to contemplate the horror of Lydia having him at her complete mercy, and God, Scott and Isaac will probably set the kitchen on fire trying to make him soup or something.

"Mr. Stilinski...Stiles…I really can't tell you how important it is that you—"

"I'll make sure he follows all your instructions," Derek interrupts suddenly, glancing over at Stiles as he says it. "Thank you. For…for everything. I can't tell you how helpful you've been these past few days." His voice is polite, and totally sincere, but yeah, that is a clear dismissal. Dr. Evers seems to realize it as well. The man's eyes dart between them a moment—and then he plainly decides he's not getting in the middle of this. He nods politely and exits the room, leaving him and Derek to a stare-down.

"Derek," he starts, but whatever half-assed argument—and really, it's not like he's going to go against his doctor's orders…he just _hates_ the thought of being confined like that—he was going to make dies in his throat as Derek's fingers suddenly stroke softly over the wrist of his still heavily-bandaged hand. Derek doesn't look at him, his eyes fixed on the bandages, flicking up to the IV port still in his good hand.

"You almost died," Derek says finally. His voice is barely a whisper, rough and quiet. "You both…you both almost died." His hand trails up Stiles' arm and then reaches over to rest on his abdomen. "His heart—" Derek stops briefly, sucking in a deep breath. "His heart stopped in the car—I heard it just get weaker and weaker…and then I couldn't hear it any more. And I thought—I thought we had lost him. I thought we'd lost our baby, and you were just lying there, and you wouldn't wake up. And then—and then his heart started again, but yours started getting weaker. You both…by the time we got to the hospital, you were barely breathing, Stiles. The baby was getting stronger, but you were getting weaker."

Almost without thinking, Stiles reaches up to wrap his good hand around Derek's. Derek takes another shuddering breath, staring intently at their joined fingers. "And I couldn't do anything to help you. Not a God. Damned.**Thing**. I spent that night just waiting…just waiting for someone to come out and tell me that I'd lost you both. That for the second time in my life, I'd lost _everything_. You…you saved us all that night with Anderson. And you did something to save our son. He was dying and you saved him…Deaton won't tell me what happened, but I know it was you. You _did_something."

Something stirs in the back of Stiles' head at Derek's words. A hazy, half-formed memory of feeling something wrong, feeling like something was slipping away from him and he needed to hold onto it with everything in him. There is a vague impression in his mind of a flickering, weakening light, and the bone-deep knowledge that he would never be able to live with himself if he let that light go out.

He and Deaton are going to be having a conversation in the near future, he decides. And he is damn well not letting the vet get away with telling him anything but the pure, unvarnished truth.

He is distracted from his thoughts, though, as Derek finally looks up, pinning him with his gaze. "You saved everyone and you almost died. So please…please don't argue with me about this. We're going to take care of you, and we're going to take care of the baby, and if Dr. Evers says you need to be on bed rest, then that's what we're going to do."

And there's really nothing he can say to that, is there? Stiles bites his lip and nods jerkily. "Okay," he says hoarsely. "Derek, okay. I promise, I'll do everything Dr. Evers says."

Derek blows out a gusty sigh, the tense set of his shoulders relaxing. "Thank you," he says quietly, the relieved note in his voice impossible to miss. He leans forward and kisses Stiles soundly, one arm sliding around his shoulders to pull him as close as possible. "And I promise, I won't let the others go overboard," he says as he pulls back. Stiles snorts and tips his head forward to rest against Derek's shoulder, chuckling quietly.

"It's cute how even after all these years, you think _you're_ the one in charge," he mutters. Derek turns his face slightly into the side of Stiles' neck.

"Shut up and leave me with my illusions," he grumbles, but Stiles can feel him smile against his skin.

* * *

He goes home on a Tuesday afternoon, loaded down with what feels like a whole novel's worth of instructions from Dr. Evers and his regular doctors. The list of do's and do not's alone is something like three pages long, and he has resigned himself to basically being confined to his bed or the couch for the next two and a half months. Not that the health and well-being of his son isn't _worth_ it. No, Stiles will gladly do anything, will go through anything if it means his baby is okay and born on time. Just…God, this is going to suck.

The entire pack and his father turn up to escort him home, and he has to hide a smile at Derek's disgruntled look when his dad actually elbows him out of the way to be the one to push Stiles' wheelchair down the halls of the hospital to the exit after Stiles signs the discharge papers. Melissa McCall walks along with them, dropping a motherly kiss on his forehead as they reach the exit, and extracting one more promise from both him and Derek that they will call her immediately if they think anything is wrong. She's promised to come by the house every day before or after her shifts just to check on Stiles.

Dr. Evers, too, has agreed to come down to Beacon Hills once a week for checkups so that Sitles won't have to take the two hour car ride up to his office. All in all, things could definitely be worse. He can even admit that the sight of the whole pack hovering around the mini-caravan of cars (seriously…his dad brought his jeep over, Scott's car is sitting just behind it, and the SUV that Boyd, Erica, and Isaac all share is just behind that) parked just outside the hospital's exit is kind of hilarious. Scott darts in by his side before either his dad or Derek can get there and helps him into the backseat of the jeep—and Stiles doesn't really need the help, but his back and his injured hand are aching just enough that he decides to indulge in it—and there's actually a little scuffle over who gets to ride shotgun in the jeep.

His dad is driving. Derek claims the rest of the backseat, obviously.

In the end, Isaac snipes the seat while Scott is trying to argue his way into it with Lydia and Erica. Stiles laughs helplessly at Lydia's affronted expression (from the safe position of having two hundred plus pounds of Alpha werewolf plastered to his side, of course) and his dad smirks at him in the rearview mirror as he puts the vehicle in gear. He settles more comfortably against Derek and waits a whole fifteen minutes before the questions that have been plaguing him since he first woke up in the hospital come bursting out of him.

Seriously, he's pretty impressed with himself.

"Okay, so now that we're safely away from any prying ears—and believe me, that _better_ be the only reason everyone's been keeping secrets from me—why are you all being so weird?" Silence descends on the jeep's interior. He's not looking, but he can practically sense Derek's jaw tightening, and in the front seat, Isaac starts shifting uncomfortably. His dad sighs heavily, shooting Derek a significant look in the mirror. Stiles raises an eyebrow. "I'd just like to remind everyone that Dr. Evers said 'no stress'…you've all known me for how long, now? You really think it's going to be better for me to drive myself nuts figuring everything out on my own?"

"Stiles," his dad starts hesitantly, "no one is trying to keep anything from you, son."

"We just wanted to be sure you were okay, first," Isaac adds in a rush.

Stiles nods sagely, and rolls his head slightly so that he's looking up at Derek. "Yeah, I'll buy that for the first couple days. But I'm fine. The baby's fine. And we will continue to _be_ fine as long as someone starts giving me the damn details!"

Derek and his dad exchange another look, his dad shrugging in a rather resigned fashion. Stiles' eyes narrow, and even though he knows it's childish, he reaches down and pinches Derek's thigh. Derek doesn't even have the decency to wince. "Derek, so help me God—" he starts threateningly.

"We're not sure," Derek says suddenly. He's staring straight ahead, his hand tightening briefly where it's resting on Stiles' shoulder. "I killed Anderson, and one of her Betas…Scott and Boyd took care of the other one. The girl was already down for the count. But Anderson had us. She was going to kill us all. You stopped her—you stopped whatever it was the girl did to us."

Stiles remembers. He remembers not being able to touch the strange sigils Angela had drawn on their walls, being pushed back by the searing heat when he tried. He remembers the terrible pain wracking through him, and the cold knowledge that they were all going to die right there if he didn't do something. Unconsciously, his uninjured hand drifts down to the bandages wrapping the other one.

"What'd I do?" he asks softly. He remembers a strange feeling sweeping through him, the sudden knowledge of what he _had_ to do to save his pack. "I mean…I remember cutting my hand and everything, but why did that break the symbols?"

Derek shrugs. In the front seat, Isaac is quiet, and Stiles can see his father has a white-knuckled grip on the steering-wheel. "We're not sure," he repeats. "Deaton's been…"

"Deaton's been talking like a damn fortune cookie," Stiles' dad mutters darkly. "Says he needs to talk to you before he can tell us anything." He pulls onto the long drive leading up to the house, and Stiles falls silent, mulling things over in his head. Derek is staring out the window, his thumb stroking restlessly over a patch of skin on Stiles' neck. They are halfway to the house when Derek and Isaac tense, sitting up straight in their seats.

"Oh my God, seriously?" Stiles groans, slapping his good hand over his eyes. "Did one of you desecrate a burial ground or something? Be honest, guys, did someone get us cursed? You can tell me, I won't be mad."

Instantly, Derek turns his attention back to him. "Calm down," he says urgently. "No one got cursed, Jesus, seriously? It's Deaton. Just Deaton." Derek's hand moves to the back of his neck, stroking soothingly, and Stiles leans back into it even as he rolls his eyes.

"Okay, just so we're clear? You start treating me like a hothouse flower, you're sleeping on the couch for the next three months."

Derek has the grace to look a little chagrinned.

Stiles' father pulls up to the house, and Deaton's car is indeed sitting out in front. The man is waiting for them on the porch, leaning against one of the columns. Stiles tilts his head slightly, reaching down to rub against his stomach. Well, then.

Looks like he's going to get his answers, after all.


	17. Chapter 17

Hello!

As always, thank you so much for all the comments, favorites, and follows left on this work. I am sincerely grateful for every one of them, and I am so glad you're enjoying this work.

A few answers in this chapter, and then we shall be moving on back into some delightful pack-family fluff, methinks.

Oh, and a quick announcement I am leaving on all my stories. If anyone is interested, I have signed up to be an author for the Sterek Campaign's charity auction, starting on December 13th. I have put up three commissioned 'fics of up to 25k (though, let's be honest here...THIS story was supposed to be four chapters long...anyone who bids on me is probably going to get considerably more than they pay for!). I am willing to write pretty much any content apart from hardcore PWP's and kink (sorry, loves, it's just not my wheelhouse), but other than that, it's all takers. It's a very worthy charity, and I'm really excited to be participating.

Plus which, I reeeeeeaaaaaallllllyyyyyy want someone to bid on me! ;)

* * *

Stiles lets Derek help him out of the jeep, his eyes zeroing in on Deaton as Derek wraps an arm around his shoulders. The rest of the pack tumbles out of their various vehicles, arranging themselves in a loose semi-circle behind Derek. Stiles cocks an eyebrow, sighing heavily.

"Guys, you wanna maybe stand down a little? Pretty sure if the doc was going to try and hurt any of us, he'd have done it, oh I don't know, _during one of the hundred and fifty or so times we dragged one or more of you to him to patch up_?" he says testily. He glances over his shoulder and sighs again at the mulish expressions currently clouding very nearly every face. Even his father is looking at the vet a little suspiciously, and in that moment, Stiles hates Anderson and her pack just a little bit more. For reducing them to this, for making his friends—his family—think they have to be suspicious of even their allies.

Damn it, they've worked so hard to get past those days of mistrust and uneasiness.

He shakes his head slightly and starts up towards the porch, Derek's arm sliding off his shoulders only to reach down and gently take Stiles' good hand in one of his. He suspects it will be a long time before Derek is comfortable with any sort of distance between them…and him being on bed rest is probably not going to help matters any.

Deaton watches them as impassively as he always does, leaning against one of the porch pillars with his hands shoved into his pockets as though this is just a social visit. Stiles' eyes narrow. He learned a long time ago that there is no such thing as social visit from the man, and if there is something he is refusing to talk about with anyone other than Stiles, Stiles is about ninety-nine percent certain that he's not going to like what the man has to say.

Scott slips up to his other side as they come to the porch steps, subtly leaning close enough that he can grab Stiles' elbow for support if he needs it. He's grateful, though, when neither Derek nor Scott try to help him up the stairs. Erica darts around them to go get the door, and Stiles smiles (tiredly and without much humor) at him, and shrugs apologetically. "What's up, doc?" he asks, because he doesn't care what any of the others says, that will never get old.

Deaton's lips twitch a bit as he straightens, seemingly willing to ignore the pack's low-level hostility. "Stiles, Derek," he says by way of greeting. His eyes grow a little warmer as he looks back to Stiles. "Good to see you back on your feet," he says sincerely. Stiles grins a bit.

"Well, for the moment. Looks like the bed and I are going to be spending even more time together," he says with a wry twist to his lips. Then he raises his chin a bit. "And much as I would love to sit around and chat about the weather next, I hear tell that you've got some information for us."

Deaton chuckles dryly, inclining his head. Stiles gestures grandly with his bandaged hand for the older man to follow them into the house. He squeezes Derek's hand reassuringly as they cross the threshold into the living room…

And promptly feels as though the air is rushing out of his lungs in one great swoop.

He gasps, his knees nearly buckling as he feels…_something_ wrench and crack and give in his chest. He is dimly aware of Derek's arms suddenly wrapping tight around his waist, holding him up, of panicked shouts in his ear and it's so reminiscent of the night of Anderson's attack—but not really the same at all. He gasps again, his mouth falling open in shock.

It is nothing like the feeling that had enveloped him after Angela had worked whatever spell or charm she'd used. After the initial, shocking head rush, there is nothing but a soothing warmth all throughout his body…no pain in his chest, only a sense of something settling, righting itself. The warmth spreads and intensifies, until he feels like his blood is fizzing and popping like champagne, little bubbles and sparks of heat and energy. The lingering tiredness that has been plaguing him dissipates as though it was never there, and he finds his feet, straightening as much as he can.

"Fine, I'm fine," he pants, blinking hazily up at Derek. His father is beside them, terror etched plainly in the lines of his face and that's not right. The pack is gathered around them, fully transformed, pressing in close and they all look so scared. Scott and Jackson are the only ones not within arm's reach of him, and that's because they're busy trying to force Deaton out of the house, though Scott keeps throwing scared, conflicted looks between him and the vet. Deaton is trying to say something, trying to explain, and everyone looks so worried, so frightened—even _Jackson_looks like he's ready to kill anything that tries to go through him to get at Stiles—and it's not right.

"I'm fine," he says again, his voice gaining strength. "Derek, it's okay." He takes a deep breath, reaching up to wrap one arm around Derek's neck. "Put the fangs away, guys, I'm fine," he says firmly. He licks his lips, still breathless and a little dizzy, and he doesn't protest when Derek and his father start herding him over to the couch. Scott and Jackson reluctantly back away from Deaton, while Isaac disappears into the kitchen. Within seconds, he's back, pressing a glass of water into Stiles' hand. He sips at it gratefully, trying to settle his breathing, the feeling of energy buzzing just underneath his skin.

Derek declines to sit down with him, instead standing just at Stiles' knees and crossing his arms over his chest. There's no fur or claws, but Stiles doesn't even have to look to know his eyes are glowing red. "What the _hell_ just happened?" Derek bites out, leveling a glare of such ferocity at Deaton that Stiles is somewhat surprised the man doesn't drop dead on the spot. Deaton, though, looks unaffected, merely shuffling closer to them all.

"I'm sorry, boys, I didn't think it'd affect him that strongly," he says in a soft, placating tone. Stiles sits up so that he can lean his head against Derek's hip a bit. .

"Dude," he says, "I'm almost seven months pregnant and there's six werewolves, a giant lizard, and an armed police officer who've had a _real_ shit week standing, like, five feet away from you. Just this once, can we skip the Obi-Wan Kenobi routine and you just give us a straight answer?"

Deaton dips his head slightly, holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender. Instead of speaking, though, he just quirks an eyebrow upwards and points with one finger to the wall behind the couch. Frowning, Stiles cranes his neck around to look.

And feels his breath catch in his throat.

"Oh," he says faintly, staring with wide eyes at one of the sigils that Angela had painted on their walls. It's glowing again, with a bright light like burnished gold, deeper and brighter than the light they'd shone with when she was working her hex. A quick glance around the room confirms that, yes, they're _all_ still there, all glowing with that same rich, gleaming light. "Wow. How long, uh, how long has that been going on?"

There is a general scramble of shock as soon as Deaton points out the sigils glowing on the four walls of the living room—and Stiles resolves to tease the entire pack mercilessly about not noticing the brightly glowing symbols on their walls just as soon as he's sure they're not a precursor of some sort of doom—but Derek and, surprisingly, Stiles' father quickly restore order. They are about to start hustling everyone out of the house when Stiles finally notices something about the sigils. Granted, his memories of the night Anderson had attacked them are a little disjointed, but he's almost positive that—

"They're different," he says as his father reaches down to help him off of the couch. "Dad, wait…guys, they're different." His voice cuts through the general pandemonium and the others fall silent in surprise. Stiles' eyes fly to Deaton, who is standing calmly with his hands tucked behind his back.

"Very good," Deaton says. Derek glances between him and Stiles before heaving a put upon sigh and reaching up to rub at his temples.

"Stiles, how do you feel about just going to Hawaii until the baby's born?" he asks tightly. Stiles makes a sympathetic noise and wraps a hand around one of Derek's wrists, tugging until he sinks down onto the couch beside him.

"Sounds awesome…but no way Dr. Evers will clear me to fly," he says, patting Derek on the leg.

* * *

"All right, what you have to understand is—what the girl did is just a parlor trick," Deaton says after they've all more or less settled down into seats or on the floor by the couch. Stiles shoots another look at the glowing sigils on the walls, biting his lip nervously.

The symbols look almost the same as he remembers—etched into the walls as though they have been burned into them. According to Lydia, who had handled having the living room cleaned and the furniture repaired while Stiles was in the hospital, the sigils had vanished as soon as Derek carried Stiles out of the house…but Boyd and Erica had dragged Angela out just after them, and everyone assumed they had vanished because the caster was no longer in the vicinity. Now that he's looking at them, though, he's still positive that the symbols have been altered somehow. There's something slightly different about their shape—the harsh, straight lines he remembers softened into graceful curves. They're still glowing with that red-gold light…but there's something almost reassuring about the glow, now. Like a cozy, banked fire rather than a vicious, consuming blaze.

"Some parlor trick," Scott mutters darkly, pulling Allison down to sit in his lap on one of the armchairs. "She almost killed us."

"I didn't say it wasn't an _impressive_ parlor trick," Deaton concedes, "but it's something that anyone with the right supplies and enough will can learn how to do. And the results are universally…unpleasant. Once something like that's been enacted, it's almost impossible to break." He turns to look at Stiles with an unnervingly intense expression. Beside him Stiles can feel Derek tensing, and on the floor in front of them, Isaac turns to shoot Stiles a confused look.

"So—how did Stiles stop it?" he asks, voicing the thought on everyone's mind. "I mean, what'd he do?

Deaton leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and steepling his fingers. "He changed the nature of what was done," he says softly. He jerks his chin towards the bandage on Stiles' hand. "He put his own blood and his own will against the girl's…and I don't think I need to tell any of you that Stiles has a considerable amount of will. He created something new."

Stiles breathes out slowly, sitting up a little straighter. "What does that mean? What did I make?" he asks. It doesn't even occur to him to question whether or not Deaton's right. Not when he still remembers the absolute, bone-deep certainty that had coursed through him, the instinct that had made him slice his hand open on Isaac's claws and press his blood into the sigils.

"Protection," Deaton says simply. "Something tried to come in and hurt your family and you changed it into something to protect them. That's what happened when you walked into the house—you reactivated all the energy you poured into the signs. Right now, I doubt anyone who wants to hurt someone you care about could get within five feet of this room."

Stiles exchanges a startled look with Derek. Again, though, Stiles doesn't think to question what Deaton is saying…something about it just feels right. He swallows hard, looking at the softly glowing sigils. Derek's hand finds his knee and squeezes gently.

"That…sounds like a hell of a lot more than a 'parlor trick'," his dad says finally, frowning slightly.

"It is," Deaton agrees. "Anyone can learn how to do what the girl did…what Stiles did, though—that's considerably rarer. And right now, it'll probably only work while Stiles is in the house, but I wouldn't be surprised if he could learn to make the wards permanent…raise and lower them at will."

Derek blows out a huff of air, his brows furrowing into an intense frown. It's the face he makes when he's just started working something out and he doesn't like where his thoughts are leading him. Stiles is pretty sure he knows what he's thinking, too.

Because Stiles is certainly thinking of all the times throughout the years that Deaton has called on _him_ to work the mystical, pretty-damn-close-to-magic-even-if-Deaton-insists-there's-no-such-thing mojo against some of the threats the pack has faced. So much more than Mountain Ash and powdered wolf's bane, and holy shit, Stiles was _sixteen_ when Deaton started talking about sparks and willing things into being.

"You've known he could do things like this all along," Derek says suddenly, accusation thick in his voice.

Deaton doesn't even try to deny it, and Stiles feels his eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline. "Seriously? And in _seven years_ , you didn't think to mention that to me?!" His voice raises with each word, and the pack starts pressing in closer to him. Derek's hand leaves his knee to skim up his back, and he makes a conscious effort to rein in his temper before he works himself up too much. He rests his good hand on his stomach, stroking his side where their son is kicking and shifting restlessly.

"I didn't think you were ready," Deaton says calmly. "You always rushed headlong into everything, Stiles, and you didn't always think of the consequences. You have the potential to be—powerful. What you did here? What I suspect you did when your baby was in trouble? That's…that's not something people can _learn_. You either have that power inside of you or you don't. The things you have the potential to do…once you start down that path, there's no going back. If you ever decided you wanted to walk away from this world, away from the pack…I had to be sure you were ready to commit yourself fully."

Stiles is silent for a moment after Deaton finishes, just staring incredulously. Then, slowly, deliberately, he looks down at the swell of his stomach, and back up at the vet. "_**Seriously**_? Seven. Months. _Pregnant_. With a _werewolf_! You _seriously_ thought I was still going to walk away from this?!"

Deaton presses his lips together. "Admittedly, I _was_ going to talk to you about training with me after you graduated this summer. Then Scott told me you and Derek were expecting…I didn't think you needed the extra stress."

"Ah. Well, yes, that worked out _beautifully_," he mutters sarcastically. He scrubs his hand over his eyes, leaning against Derek's shoulder. He turns slightly, pressing his face into Derek's t-shirt. "We can't fly to Hawaii…how about Mexico?" he mumbles.


	18. Chapter 18

Hello!

As always, thank you so much for all the comments, favorites, and follows left on this work. I am sincerely grateful for every one of them, and I am so glad you're enjoying this work.

* * *

It takes the pack approximately two weeks to even _start_ to back off high alert. Jackson and Lydia pretty much abandon their apartment in town for their guest room at the house. Boyd claims a 'family emergency' and takes time off from school over Derek and Stiles' very vocal objections (at least they object until they notice how drawn and tired the young man looks, the flashes of guilt that cross his face when he looks at Stiles sometimes). Erica and Isaac live at the house anyway, though Erica divides her time between the Hale property and her parents' house. Scott only sleeps over a few days a week, but it hardly matters as he is out at the property every day. Allison is back at school, but calls every night for updates as to how everything is going.

It wouldn't be so bad if he wasn't expecting, Stiles knows. If they hadn't come so close to losing both him and the baby, they would be able to shake off Anderson's attack the same way they've shaken off every other threat they've faced over the years. He is, and they did, though, so he shrugs silently and lets the pack circle him as closely as they please. Lets them touch him at every opportunity, lets them make themselves into a wall between him and the rest of the world, lets Derek hold him too tightly at night (even though he's well and truly hit the 'ungodly uncomfortable' stage of pregnancy and Derek puts off body heat like a furnace). He tries to let them get to a point where they can all believe that they didn't fail him or the baby, and he silently hopes that Caroline Anderson is burning in hell.

He distracts himself as best he can with books Deaton has loaned him—so much more informative and detailed than the watered-down versions the vet has been letting Stiles look at over the years, and _oh_ Stiles silently resolves to get at least a little revenge for that—and his own research with the various sites and sources he's amassed since high school. He's never questioned too hard why he was the one Deaton was always calling on for potions and poultices, sure it was just because he was human and therefore the only one who could safely handle everything. Now that he's actually looking into it, though, he's coming to the conclusion that a great deal of the mojo he's worked in the past probably had more to do with _him_ than the ingredients. It's uncomfortable, and more than a little frightening, at first.

Then the hazy, blurred memory of that small, flickering light weakening and weakening surfaces, and he can't feel anything but grateful for whatever power inside of him let him keep it safe and real and _here_.

It takes the pack approximately two weeks to even start to stand down…but eventually they do. Jackson and Lydia start sleeping at their apartment again. Boyd goes back to school. Isaac and Erica stop leaping to their feet every time he moves. Scott starts focusing on planning the wedding with Allison again ('planning' here having the meaning of nodding happily at whatever suggestion Allison makes with a besotted grin on his face).

Derek…Derek still holds him too tightly at night.

Still looks at him with shadows in his eyes that will never be completely banished, but haven't been this deep and dark in years. Still has to force himself out the door in the mornings when he has a shift at the garage (and Stiles is fairly certain that the only reason he hasn't just quit his job is that Stiles will give him hell if he quits. It's not like he needs the money.), and breaks more speed laws than Stiles cares to think about getting back to the house every night. Time is the only thing that's going to help with that situation, though, and so Stiles just tries to reassure Derek as much as he can that he and their son are still here. That Derek didn't lose them.

Everything finally starts settling down, though. The Randalls send a formal delegation to the very edge of the Hale territory to solemnly assure Derek that the rest of Anderson's pack has withdrawn from the Randall land and, by all accounts, left California entirely with their metaphorical tails tucked between their legs. They also take the opportunity to thank Derek profusely for the Hale pack's help in destroying the threat Anderson posed and according to Isaac, they leave the impression that Stiles can pretty much ask them for as many favors as he wants for the rest of forever.

Which, good to know. Stiles is all for strengthening pack alliances.

At the moment, though, he's all for just forgetting all the ugliness that's gone down in the past weeks and concentrating on getting through the last couple of months before their son arrives. Unfortunately, he fails to take into consideration the fact that the pack finally moving on from the trauma of Anderson's attack also means he no longer has as much to distract him from one very important bit of information.

Bed rest…fucking…**sucks**.

He honestly would have said that he spent most of his time indoors watching TV, browsing the internet, or reading—until he realizes that there is literally nothing else for him to do. The rest of the pack is militant about Dr. Evers' orders, and refuse to let him be on his feet for more than the prescribed twenty to twenty-five minutes at a time. Going into town still makes the pack jumpy (and according to his research and Deaton, they're just going to get worse the closer he gets to his due date), so it's barely worth it to argue his way into going to see a movie or going out to eat. Going for a quiet walk on the property is right out.

When Isaac catches him trying to play a bit with the 'levels' of the wards he'd inadvertently put up around the living room, he just gets this _look_on his face. He looks at Stiles like he just caught him strangling kittens in front of wheelchair-bound children or something, and Stiles is stammering out a promise that he won't do anything else until after the baby's born before he's even aware his mouth is moving.

It only takes him a few days to watch pretty much every movie in the house, catch up on the reading he's been meaning to do, and decide that yes, daytime television _is_ actually an invention of the devil. The pack sets him up a little encampment in the living room (about the only time everyone truly _relaxes_ is when Stiles is surrounded by the new wards), arranging the furniture to so that he has a completely unobstructed view of the television no matter where he's sitting, covering the couch with the softest pillows and quilts they can find (or buy…Lydia insists that she's had that mohair blanket for years, but Stiles is calling total bullshit and she's getting it back over his dead body), and basically waiting on him hand and foot.

And while he's not quite feeling like a beached whale, yet, he's uncomfortable enough that he lets them with a minimum of fuss. His back is a constant ache these days, the skin over his abdomen feels stretched and itchy all the time, and while he can't really see his feet without more effort than it's worth, he's pretty sure they're a swollen mess. Still, with nothing else to do, he quickly starts to get bored.

Bad things tend to happen when Stiles is wrestling with boredom.

Fortunately, the pack knows this well.

It takes him a couple of days to realize they're up to anything. There's a sudden flurry of activity in the upstairs bedroom that the pack has been slowly converting into a nursery (with Derek and Stiles expressly forbidden from entering until everything is done). Lydia starts getting that light in her eyes that means she's planning something and everyone had better just get out of her way. Whispered conversations abruptly break off every time he gets within hearing distance. Isaac, Erica, and Scott spend large amounts of time in huddled conversation and break out into secretive little grins every time they think he's not looking…and then hide them poorly when they realize he _is_. All in all, it makes him a little nervous—but Derek doesn't seem bothered, and if the pack is enjoying themselves finishing the nursery, he's certainly not going to complain.

He should know better, by now. He really should. The very fact that Lydia, Erica, and Allison had not buried the living room in shopping bags once they found out they were having a boy should have been a red flag.

He's been a _little_ distracted, though, so he supposes he can be forgiven for being utterly taken by surprise when he and Derek return from one of the now-weekly appointments with Dr. Evers down at the Beacon Hills clinic to find the driveway utterly filled with cars. His father's cruiser, Melissa McCall's car, the various vehicles that belong to the pack. The still-warm September air is filled with the smell of grilling burgers and hotdogs.

"Derek," he drawls out slowly as Derek comes around to his side of the car to help him out. "What's going on?"

"I'll give you three guesses," Derek replies dryly. He wraps his arm around Stiles' shoulders, pulling him against his side.

"Lydia's throwing us a baby shower, huh?"

"Yup."

"You didn't even try to talk her out of it, did you?"

"Pretty sure she'd cut me."

"Yeah, how's that big, bad Alpha thing working out for you now?"

Derek slants a mock glare at him before leaning close to drop a kiss on his temple. "They need this," he says quietly. "I know you didn't really want a big party, but they need this. And it's just…just family." His voice hitches a little on the end…just barely noticeable, but it makes Stiles tighten his arm around Derek's waist anyway.

"Are there presents?" he asks mischievously, eager to lighten the moment. Derek huffs a bit.

"Lydia broke out the platinum credit card. Pretty sure they bought out every baby store in three counties. There's cake, too." Stiles laughs and tries to paste an appropriately shocked expression on his face as Derek opens the front door to shouts of: "Surprise!"

There is, indeed, a small mountain of brightly wrapped presents piled in the living room. There are multiple bouquets of blue and white balloons, and probably a small forest's worth of tissue-paper streamers in the same colors. The dining room table is covered with platters of vegetables, cookies, and chips, as well as the biggest bowl of punch Stiles has ever seen. The cake…Stiles actually laughs out loud at the sight of the multi-tier concoction, covered with blue fondant and topped with a sculpted figure of an adorable little wolf cub with a blue bow around its neck.

Thankfully, there are awkward games or ridiculous prizes…just a relaxed, happy gathering with his family. The food is great, and for the first time since the Randall's showed up on their doorstep, everyone seems completely at ease.

Plus which, there are presents. Lots and lots of presents.

As the afternoon winds down into evening, Scott and Isaac finally start calling loudly for presents. Stiles rather suspects they just want to get pictures of Derek surrounded by tiny onesies, diapers, bottles, and baby toys. He can't deny that he's excited to see what everyone got them, though, and so he gleefully agrees, letting Scott drag him over to the couch and push him down into it while Isaac, Boyd, Allison, and Melissa start gathering up the various boxes and bags. Derek follows at a slower pace, watching the procedures with a bemused expression. He doesn't protest when Stiles grabs him by the wrist and pulls him down to sit beside him on the couch, though.

Before they can start on the first present, however, Erica suddenly stands up, setting her glass of punch down on the coffee table. Stiles raises a questioning eyebrow. When she just smirks at him, he shifts a little on the couch—that's her dangerous smirk. Tempered with genuine love and affection, now, of course…but yeah, that's the expression he's seen her wear numerous times right before she goes in for the kill.

"Hang on a minute," she says with false brightness, clapping her hands for everyone's attention. "Before we give them all this loot, I think it's only fair that they give _us_ something," she says. Stiles tilts his head slightly, already seeing where this is going. "Something they've been keeping to themselves for way, _way_ too long."

"We're not letting you watch us have sex, Erica," Stiles deadpans, startling a burst of laughter out of Isaac. Erica sputters indignantly, while Stiles' dad immediately starts choking on his beer.

"What? No! What? Oh my God, Stiles!" Erica shrieks.

"Holy crap, I don't need to hear these things about my _kid_!" his father wheezes, while Melissa helpfully pounds him on the back.

"Ugh, Jesus Christ….I meant the name! We wanna know the name!" Erica glares at them fiercely, and Stiles nearly doubles over in laughter. When he finally gets hold of himself, the rest of the pack is staring at him and Derek expectantly. Even his dad and Melissa are watching them with hopeful expressions. He glances over at Derek, shrugging one shoulder. Derek is smiling softly, just the barest tilt of the corners of his lips.

"Alexander," Derek says quietly. "Alexander Thomas. Stiles picked the first name, and Thomas is for my grandfather."

Stiles returns his smile, leaning closer until most of his weight is resting against Derek's shoulder. There is a general uproar around them, approval, excitement, happiness…and Stiles starts a silent countdown in his head. It's not like he thinks Derek is going to change his mind…they've both been calling their baby by his name since Stiles first woke up in the hospital. It's impossible to think of him by any other name, now. Still…he _had_ been kind of hoping for it to be a little longer before someone points out the obvious connection to Derek.

"Wait…wait, you're not going to call him 'Alexander' all the time, are you?" Erica says suddenly, her eyes narrowing at Stiles in sudden, sharp amusement. And yeah, Scott may be his best friend, but there's a reason Erica is his Catwoman. He looks up at her innocently.

"No…actually, Stiles started calling him Xander," Derek replies, and Stiles has to bite down on his lip as Erica, Isaac, and even Boyd suddenly burst into delighted laughter.

"Xander?!" Erica crows happily. "You're naming your kid _Xander_?"

Stiles ducks his head, pressing his forehead against Derek's chest as Derek's brow starts to furrow in confusion. "What? It's a good name." He glances down at Stiles, and Stiles can picture the perplexed look on his face perfectly. "Seriously! What's so funny?"


	19. Chapter 19

_October_

Fall rolls into Beacon Hills earlier than usual that year, blanketing the trees in brilliant shades of scarlet, orange, and yellow, and bringing with it cool, rainy weather. Stiles enjoys it thoroughly after the misery of the summer months-emotional and physical upheaval aside, it had been fucking _hot_ all through August and most of September, and Stiles had been starting to get a little bit vicious if the reactions of the pack were anything to go by. He spends most of his afternoons tucked into one of the various chairs and lounges scattered on the back deck of the house, reading or working on his laptop and listening to the rain patter on the overhanging roof. It helps with the boredom of bedrest.

Slightly.

A little bit.

Well...at least he hasn't killed anyone, yet.

The pack-Derek, Lydia, and Isaac in particular-have been absolute in their insistence that Stiles follow Dr. Evers' orders to the letter. They have turned the living room couch into a veritable fortress of blankets and pillows, shifted what feels like every piece of furniture on the lower level around at least five times to accommodate Stiles' various whims, and Stiles is pretty damn sure Lydia made them synchronize their watches so they could keep accurate track of the amount of time Stiles spends on his feet.

He understands their paranoia. He really does. The wounds caused by Anderson and her pack ran far deeper than any physical injuries, and though they've all finally managed to shift their alert-level back to normal (or whatever passes for normal for a werewolf pack situated in a hotbed of supernatural activity), no one is going to allow the slightest risk to Xander if they can help it. Stiles feels exactly the same way-the health and well-being of his son is worth anything in the world to him.

Just-_God_ bedrest sucks.

He's so ready for this all to be over. He's ready to be able to get up and walk around for more than twenty minutes without any of his pack starting to look twitchy. He's ready for his body to stop aching in strange and random places. He's ready to be able to look down and see his feet again. He's ready to _not_ feel like a beached whale stretched out on the couch (Derek had assured him he was being ridiculous, that he wasn't at all whale-like, beached or otherwise, but his expression of mild terror in the face of one of Stiles'-thankfully rare-sheer, hormone-driven _breakdowns_ had belied the words).

Above all else, he is ready to finally hold Xander in his arms. He is ready to start the next chapter of his life with Derek and their son.

So yes, all told, he is approximately one thousand percent _done_ with this business of growing another person inside himself. He is done with it, and he still has another three and a half weeks to go before Dr. Evers will talk about inducing him a little early, and his back has been killing him harder than usual for the past few days, and so he supposes he can be forgiven for not immediately noticing when Scott and Isaac start acting a little strange.

To be fair, it's not as though they're doing anything that's the bad kind of strange (nothing that pings Stiles' awareness as being a possible threat, or new supernatural danger, or new evidence supporting his debunked ghostly Italian grandmother theory). And it's not like Scott and Isaac don't usually spend a lot of time together. Hell, after Stiles, Isaac is Scott's best friend in the world. They're just...secretive, all of a sudden. Always huddling together with their heads bent low, whispering and gesturing and passing Isaac's phone back and forth, apparently examining something on the web browser. He thinks they've probably been doing it for at least three days when he finally notices. He gives it a further three before he says anything.

He's lounging on the sofa, approximately six pillows tucked around various parts of his body and finally providing just the right amount of support that his back is only a dull ache, when Scott and Isaac come darting into the living room, Scott pulling on his jacket while Isaac texts furiously on his phone. They're trying to be stealthy and silent about it...which is something they're rather good at when shit's going down and lives hang in the balance.

Shit is _not_ going down at the moment, though, and no lives are hanging in the balance, and so they're approximately as subtle as a couple of drunken hippos careening through a china shop.

Stiles pauses with a glass of fruit juice halfway to his mouth, watching the two with a raised eyebrow as they shush each other loudly, jingle their keys, and pretty much announce to the world at large that they're Up To No Good. He debates with himself silently for a second, trying to decide if he wants to get involved. Reluctantly, he concedes that someone should probably do an adult-supervision double check on them. The last time Scott was acting secretive, it ended with the pack having to deal with an entire cadre of pissed-off pixies.

Then again, Stiles had been just as responsible for that incident as Scott, so perhaps he's not the best one to be doing said adult-supervision double check.

Still, no one else seems to have noticed Scott and Isaac's antics, and Stiles is going to be starting a lifetime's worth of adult-supervision double checks in a few short weeks, so he clears his throat loudly.  
Scott and Isaac start guiltily, whirling around to face him, and Stiles just raises a sardonic eyebrow. He can't imagine why they look surprised to see him...it's not as if he he's been practically living on the couch for the past month or so, or anything. He drums his fingers on the arm of the couch for a moment, before sighing heavily.

"Is it liable to involve me having to get Dad to distract his deputies and/or anything coming after us with bigger fangs and claws than you guys have?" he asks tiredly. Scott and Isaac exchange wide-eyed looks, and Isaac starts shaking his head immediately.

"No, no, God, no...nothing like that." For a moment, he looks like he's going to try and concoct some wild story right there on the spot. Eventually, though, he just shrugs a little helplessly.

"It's a present for you and Derek," Scott admits sheepishly after a few beats. "We're just going into town to pick it up."

Stiles relaxes back against the couch, his concerns immediately melting away. He grins up at his friends, rubbing one hand absently over his side. Xander is restless tonight, and has been squirming against Stiles' ribs for the past hour. "Is it for the nursery?"

The nursery is, in fact, starting to become something of a running gag amongst the pack. Only a month and a half to go, and he and Derek have yet to be allowed inside the room. Lydia has gone so far as to cordon off the doorway with bright yellow caution tape, wrangling promises from both Stiles and Derek that they won't open the door until the rest of the pack gives the okay. They've both caught glimpses over the last few weeks-fleeting flashes of color and brightness before the door is inevitably slammed in their faces-but neither of them has been allowed to see the whole product. Lydia, Erica, and Allison have been going overboard trying to make it "perfect," and Stiles has no doubt that their son's bedroom is going to look like something out of a magazine shoot (and with Erica and Allison involved in the project, he can be sure it's going to look gorgeous and be completely practical). In the meantime, though, someone always seems to be running out to get something "for the nursery". Stiles and Derek are both starting to get a little impatient, actually.

Scott returns his grin, eyes crinkling in amusement. "Yup," he says proudly. "We think this'll be the finishing touch."

Stiles raises his glass of fruit juice in a mock toast. "By all means, then, carry on!" He laughs a little as Scott and Isaac immediately scramble for the door, jostling each other playfully.

Later, it occurs to him that he probably should have at least tried to get some details as to what this "finishing touch" was.

The entire pack descends on the house for dinner that night, Allison included. Stiles is a little surprised to see her, as she's deep into her student teaching at this point, and between that and planning the wedding, he knows her time is a precious commodity. He's certainly not _unhappy_ to see her, though, and the reason for her driving all the way back to Beacon Hills soon becomes apparent. They are about halfway through the second of three cherry cheesecakes Jackson and Lydia brought with them (and everyone feels bad enough about Stiles having to forgo the coffee that no one bats an eye when he scoops a third helping onto his plate), when Lydia rises gracefully to her feet and gestures for everyone's attention.

Derek has to nudge Stiles' ankle under the table to get him to look up from said third helping. Sue him, it's damn good cheesecake.

Lydia smiles sweetly when everyone is giving her their undivided attention, and then focuses on Stiles and Derek. "So, I suppose you're wondering why we're all here tonight," she begins, drawing a snort of laughter from Derek.

"We're the only ones who own a big enough dining room table," he says dryly. A few of them chuckle, and Lydia sticks her tongue out at her Alpha before drawing herself back up primly.

"As I was _saying_," she drawls out, "it's been a little rougher than we were expecting the last few weeks..." Her eyes dart to Stiles, expression softening slightly as she glances down at his hand, curled lightly on the tabletop. It's no longer bandaged, and the stitches came out a while ago, but the resulting scar down the center of his palm is still an angry red color, not even begun to fade yet. The pack falls silent as Lydia trails off, and Derek leans back in his seat suddenly, shifting his body so that he can drape one arm over Stiles' shoulders.

Lydia clears her throat, forcing another bright smile onto her face. "It's been rough," she says again, "but we survived. Like we always do."

"Damn straight, we did," Erica chimes in, grinning viciously. There are general murmurs of assent from around the table, and Derek's arm tightens around Stiles' shoulders.

"And now, we're in the home stretch before Xander gets here-"

"_You're_ in the home stretch?" Stiles interrupts incredulously. "I'm the one who hasn't been able to fit into normal clothes for the last five months!" He glares playfully at Lydia, snatching a roll out of the bowl on the table in front of him and tossing it at her. As expected, Lydia snatches it out of the air with perfect reflexes, and sets it down on Jackson's plate.

"My point is, things are going to change around here. Majorly." She smiles warmly at Stiles and Derek, before turning her gaze to Scott and Allison. "And they're probably going to keep changing." Allison leans her head on Scott's shoulder, the two of them exchanging knowing looks. "But I know we can handle it...just like we handle everything that happens in this town."

"God, is she comparing changing diapers and washing bottles to dealing with rogue werewolves?" Stiles wonders aloud.

"Clearly you've never changed a blowout diaper before," Boyd says. He just smirks when Stiles shoots him an alarmed glance, winking at Derek.

"All joking aside," Lydia continues pointedly. "Derek, Stiles...we all know you're going to be great parents. And when you're not so great, _we're_ all going to be fabulous aunts and uncles." Her face softens further, her tone shifting from playful assurance to something warmer and more sincere, genuine and emotional. "Xander's lucky to have this family. However long it took us to get to this point, it doesn't matter-he's lucky to have it, and all the kids that are gonna follow are lucky to have it."

Stiles sucks in a soft breath, a lump that he will blame on hormones until the day he dies rising in his throat. Silence falls over the table, as Lydia ducks her head a bit, reaching down to twine her fingers with Jackson's. After a brief moment, Scott coughs quietly, his eyes a little brighter than usual as he reaches forward and grabs the bottle of beer he's been nursing for the past half hour, raising it in a toast.

"To family, then," he says brightly. There is a soft murmur of sound and glasses clinking as everyone follows suit. "To family" echoes around the table, and warmth fills Stiles' chest as he thinks about all the evenings just like this he has in his future. Years and years of them, filled with just this much happiness and connection-_more_, in fact, once the house starts filling with the shrieks and laughter of children...Xander and all the 'cousins' Stiles knows will be coming someday. Maybe even a brother or sister for his son. Derek pulls him closer, leaning over to hook his chin on Stiles' shoulder, and Stiles glances over with a private little grin.

"To family," he whispers, and Derek closes his eyes briefly. They clink glasses quickly, just barely touching them together.

"Yeah," Derek murmurs, his voice gone a little rougher than usual. "To family."

They finish off dessert quickly after that, the mood lightening back into something jovial and bright. There is a palpable spark of excitement in the room, as the rest of the pack shares the same secretive little smiles that have been passing between Isaac and Scott for the past week. Stiles thinks he knows what's coming, and so he is not entirely surprised when the doorbell rings about half an hour after Melissa is due to get off-shift down at the hospital, and Boyd opens the front door to reveal both Melissa and Stiles' father standing on the porch.

"Oh thank God," Jackson exclaims as the two start divesting themselves of their jackets. "Now we can get this show on the road!"

Stiles' dad chuckles softly as he enters the dining room, clapping a friendly hand on Derek's shoulder and reaching down with his free hand to ruffle Stiles' hair. "How're you feeling, kiddo?" he asks.

"I'm going to pretend you were talking to _me_," Stiles says with falsely affronted dignity. It is a well-documented fact that his dad is over-the-moon excited to be a grandpa, and at least half of his comments and statements these days are directed at Xander. "And we're all fine, thanks." His dad just laughs, moving around the back of his chair to hook an arm around his neck.

"All right, now that everyone is here, we can move onto the main event!" Lydia says suddenly, clapping her hands in delight. The excitement in the air amps up a little. Stiles exchanges a rueful smile with Derek, allowing the other to help him up out of his chir as everyone starts scrambling to their feet.

"So help me, Lyds, if you're not about to finally let us into our baby's room-" he begins, shaking a mock-threatening fist. Lydia smirks at him, before turning with a flourish and leading the way up the stairs. Derek shakes his head, a fond little twist to his lips as he quietly slips his hand into Stiles'. Stiles isn't fooledHe can't help the little spark of excitement building in his stomach, and a quick glance over at Derek reveals the same light in his eyes.

The pack, as well as Melissa and his dad, crowd in close behind them as they troop upstairs, following Lydia down the short hall that leads to the bedrooms. The room directly across the hall from Stiles and Derek's has been designated as the nursery, and Stiles laughs out loud as he realizes someone has taped a large blue and white ribbon onto the door sometime during the evening. Erica looks entirely too pleased with herself, so Stiles is betting on her.

"So, who wants to do the honors?" Lydia asks, spinning around to sweep her arm at the door dramatically. Stiles rolls his eyes heavenward, but his grin is damn near splitting his face as he tilts a questioning eyebrow at Derek. Derek just shrugs, squeezing Stiles' fingers briefly before pushing him towards the door.

"Go on," he says. Stiles doesn't need to be told twice. The others are grinning happily as he throws the door open, eager to see what all the secrecy has been about.

And it's absolutely perfect.

"Oh," he says quietly. "Oh wow, you guys."

To be fair, it's not like he and Derek have been overly invested in how the nursery is decorated. He just loves that their family wants to do something like this for them, has been working so hard on something for no other reason than they want to do something nice for them. This, though, is beyond anything he was expecting.

It's beautiful. Of course it's beautiful, with Lydia, Erica, and Allison in charge. He recognizes some of the colors nd accessories from the pictures Lydia showed them all those months ago-and he wants to laugh aloud again when he realizes they did, indeed, go with the Under the Sea theme. There are dozens of sweet-looking sea creatures dancing on the walls (including the brightly colored seahorses that Derek had refused to admit he liked), the crib he and Derek had picked out a while back is piled with pluh stuffed animals and soft-looking blankets, and the furniture is top-notch. Everything about the room is bright, peaceful, and happy, and for the second time that night, Stiles feels himself getting choked up at the thought that in just a few short weeks, their son is going to be in this room.

"Wow," he says again. "Guys, this is _amazing_!" Derek is standing just behind his shoulder, tking it all in silently. Stiles steps further into the room, the entire pack spilling in behind them. Stiles moves over to the crib, trailing his fingers over the soft fur of a fluffy teddy bear. There's a large, overstuffed armchair directly in front of the wide window looking out over the woods, and Stiles can tell it's going to be perfect for the 2am feedings he is _not_ looking forward to.

His gaze stops on a large, wooden cradle that has been set up near the armchair, directly under the window. It's obviously handmade, carved and put together with lot of skill...but it doesn't look nearly as high-end as the rest of the furniture. In fact, it looks a little old, wear and tear showing on the edges of the rungs, and the wood is weirdly stained in places, though someone has obviously made an effort to clean it up. Brow furrowing, he looks closer at the stains on the wood, where the dark stain can't quite hide the black splotches of water damage and...smoke?

Behind him, Derek draws in a sharp breath, going absolutely stock still.

"We...we thought you should have something for him from-uh-from _before_, you know?" Scott pipes up suddenly from somewhere near the doorway. "We went down to that storage shed you have-and it was just, it was right there! Isaac found a guy a few towns over that specializes in restorations..."

The storage unit. The storage unit in town that the Hales had kept for years before the fire...the one to which the county and some well-meaning friends of Derek's parents had consigned the few things that were salvagable after the fire. The one that Laura had set up automatic payments for after she and Derek had left Beacon Hills the first time, and the one Derek _never_goes to...unable to bring himself to go go through the sad remains of the life he'd had before, and just as unable to just have them disposed of.

Oh...oh God, why didn't someone ask him before they did this?

Hesitantly, Stiles glances over his shoulder at Derek. The other man is just staring at the cradle, his face frozen in an expression Stiles is hardpressed to name. The talking and chatter of the pack trails off into silence as they start to realize that the reaction they're getting from their Alpha isn't exactly positive.

"Derek?" Allison asks quiely. "We-we just thought you might want something from your...from your family for Xander."

"Oh God, this was a stupid idea," Lydia interjects suddenly. "We're sorry, Derek, we'll get it out of here. We didn't mean to-"

"No," Derek says, his voie barely above a whisper, but carrying all the same. He moves forward, his steps somehow jerky and hesitant, as if his feet are moving without his permission. "No, it's...it's okay." He reaches out, his hand hovering right above the top edge of the cradle, where someone had carved beautiful, intricate vines and flowers into the wood. The smoke damage is worst along the cradle's sides, but Stiles can still see where the carvings continue all the way down-animals and trees and flowers that show an impressive amount of skill. The love in the craftmanship is obvious.

"It's okay," Derek says again, resting his hand on the wood of the cradle. Stiles is pretty sure he's the only one close enough to see how his fingers are trembling slightly. "Thank you, for this. Thank you all."

Despite Derek's assurances that he's not angry, the party atmosphere is broken after that. Everyone starts drifting back to their own homes pretty much as soon as they get back downstairs. Stiles can't really find it in himself to be disappointed...he knows they meant well, but he doesn't like the look on Derek's face. Even after everyone has left, though, Derek doesn't say anything about the cradle-he just goes about loading the dishwasher and putting the leftovers away in the kind of brooding, heavy silence that Stiles knows from experience will only be broken when Derek is good and ready to talk.

Derek still hasn't said anything by the time they drag themselves up to their room, though, and so Stiles is entirely unsurprised when he surfaces from sleep sometime in the wee hours of the morning to find himself alone in bed. He blinks hazily at the clock on the bedside table, groaning a little to himself when he realizes it's almost three in the morning. He passes a hand over his face, rubbing at the grit that has collected in the corners of his eyes, before rolling out of the bed and levering himself to his feet.

He doesn't bother softening his footsteps as he steps out into the hallways, well aware that Derek heard him the moment he started climbing out of bed. As he expected, the door to the nursery is standing wide open. The overhead light hasn't been turned on, but there is a soft, golden glow coming from a whimsical lamp shaped like a bright yellow starfish, sitting on a small table by the crib. Stiles sighs quietly, just leaning against the doorjamb for a moment.

Derek is sprawled in the armchair by the window, his eyes fixed on the cradle. He doesn't move as Stiles pads across the room to stand by the arm of the chair, though the tense set of his shoulders relaxes slightly. Silently, Stiles moves around to drop down onto the cushion with him. It's an over-sized chair, but even so, it's a tight fit for the two of them. Derek moves aside as much as he can, though, and they manage to make it work, with Stiles fitted tightly all along Derek's side with one arm thrown around Stiles' shoulders.

"My grandfather made it," Derek says at length, his thumb stroking random, restless circles against the side of Stiles' neck. His voice is low, quiet, rough around the edges the way it only ever gets when the past rears its head and threatens to shake the steady foundation he's managed to form for himself. "The day Mom found out she was pregnant with Laura, he started making it. It...I guess it was in the attic. Most of the things that weren't totally destroyed were in the attic."

Stiles takes in the sight of the cradle, resting his head against Derek's. "We don't have to keep it," he offers after a moment. "We can have Isaac take it back to the storage unit."

Derek doesn't say anything for the longest time, pulling Stiles more tightly against him. Stiles doesn't push, letting Derek work through whatever he needs to in his own time, as he always does. As Derek does for him, on the occasions something comes up that reminds him of his mom. They've both done their fair share of silent support all throughout Stiles' pregnancy.

After all, it's impossible to think of the new life they're starting with their son, and not think of all the people who would have loved Xander just as much as they do. Who should still _be_ here to be a part of their son's life.

"No," Derek says finally, after long moments have passed. "I...they were right. Xander should have something from-" He shakes his head, releasing a deep, shuddering breath. "I want to keep it," he says, his voice firming up.

Stiles nods, throwing one of his legs over Derek's knee and leaning up to kiss the corner of his mouth. "All right, then." He pulls away, resting his head on Derek's shoulder. "It's really awesome," he says quietly, and Derek lets out a shaky chuckle.

"Grandpa was-he was good at things like that." Derek doesn't offer any further information, and Stiles doesn't push. They've shared the details of the people they've lost in fits and starts over the years, tiny bursts of their pasts they give to each other like small treasures. They sit in the quiet of the nursery, just holding each other, for another hour. Stiles is half-dozing against Derek's shoulder when the other man finally shifts a little.

"They would have loved you," Derek says softly. He brushes his lips over Stiles' forehead, and then tilts his head down to kiss him properly. "Both of you," he whispers against Stiles' lips. "They would have loved you both so much."

Stiles hums into the kiss, framing Derek's face with his hands and just letting Derek know that he's here. That both him and their son are here, and Derek _has_ them. He has them, and he has the pack, and he's never going to be alone with his ghosts again.


End file.
